Memory came to join the fever of passion he quickly awakened again. He had made love to her before, and she remembered every nuance of him—his touch, his lips, his scent. She had held them sacred in her heart, and the sheer joy of feeling him again was overwhelming. She should have been skeptical, aloof, angry, indignant. He’d had no right, master of the castle or no, to slip into her room unasked, to touch unasked. Yet logic and emotions didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He had come because he was done with waiting. He wanted her, and he had come for her, and he knew that she had no will to deny him. Perhaps he even knew that she had been dying for his touch, and dying to touch him in turn. Perhaps he had seen the hunger in her eyes.
She returned his kiss with equal passion, arms enveloping him, fingertips eager to reach his flesh. His mouth was hard, his cheeks slightly rough as his face moved against her flesh, tongue and mouth teasing her throat, the globes of her breasts, closing around her nipples, teasing, tasting, grazing, making them pebble under his assault. She dug her fingers into his hair, cradling his head to her, her body arching, small, desperate sounds escaping her lips. His weight was between her thighs; she felt the tip of his erection against her, slick, insistent, arousing, and then he was sheathed within her, and the shock of sensation was dizzying again.
He angled his hips, thrust and withdrew, slowly at first, filling her as deeply as she could be filled. Her fingers dug into him, holding him, clutching his back, his muscled buttocks. His hands were beneath her, lifting, guiding, bringing her ever closer with a heady, impossible intensity.
She buried her cries in his shoulder when climax seized her again. She shook, convulsed, held him, damp, seeking breath, feeling the thunderous pounding of her heart as if it were a kettle drum. His hands still cradling her hips, he arched his body hard against hers, into hers, and she felt his heat spill into her, permeate her depths. He didn’t release her right away, nor did he withdraw from her, and their ragged breaths mingled, as did the drumming of their hearts.
People were out and about. Jon had instructed Camy to deliver the notes asking his guests to be careful and stay put. But the trickster had been at it again, writing new notes, and a number of guests had fallen for the second set of notes sent around, risking life and limb running around the darkened castle rather than remaining smart and safe.
Finding one of the notes that summoned guests to the ‘dungeon below,’ Camy was perplexed. Was everyone writing his or her own directions, playing new games?
The upstairs hallway was quiet. Jon wasn’t in his room. She hadn’t been able to find Jon; he wasn’t in his room. She wanted to tell him that something was up, but she didn’t know just exactly where he was right now. And so, despite the fact that she was shivering and frightened, she knew that she had to go below herself.
Descending the first set of stairs, she was certain that she saw shadows moving ahead of her. Wraiths in the night. She told herself that she wasn’t afraid of the castle, of the crypt. She lived here. There were no ghosts, no goblins. Joshua Valine was a talented artist who had sculpted figures from wax and wire, nothing more. There was nothing to be afraid of.
She knew the castle.
Still…
She started silently down the next flight of stairs, to the dungeon. She was convinced that she heard furtive sounds. People guarding their secrets and their fears.
Secrets and fears that could make them want to kill?
There was a sound, like the scurrying of rats running about, afraid of the light, glad of the darkness and the shadows of the castle. Strange, she could almost see all Jon’s guests as rats in her mind’s eye. Big rats, little rats, frightened, dangerous rats. Reggie Hampton, for instance, would be a plump rodent with a flowered dress. Susan Sharp would be a scrawny creature with big rat teeth. Thayer Newby would wear a cop badge on rat patrol, while Joe Johnston would be a scruffy gutter rat. And good old Tom Heart would wear a top hat and cane, a Fred Astaire scurrying gracefully among the rest of them.
Camy felt a strange chill. What was going on? It was so weird. She could feel the secretive movements in the castle. She didn’t like it. She was uneasy.
Furtive and careful herself, she entered the chapel. A single lamp was burning there to protect visitors from stumbling in the dark. She saw no one. Yet it seemed even there that the dim light set menacing shadows to flickering in every corner.
Where was Jon? Was he down here somewhere, silently trying, as she was, to find out what his guests were up to?
She left the chapel, carefully looking out the doors before she did so, and slipped into the chamber of horrors. She wondered if Joshua himself could have known just how frightening this place could be even without his purplish lighting, with the eerie flicker of lanterns against the stones of the castle. She blinked, half expecting Jack the Ripper to lift his face to her and offer her an evil, taunting grin. She was convinced, for a moment, that Marie Antoinette turned to look at her. On the rack, Lady Ariana Stuart screamed in silent anguish, her eyes upon Camy, desperate, accusing….
She waited, barely breathing, thinking again that she heard the scurrying of rats. Was someone there, hiding among the wax figures? Or were the figures alive, moving each time she blinked, coming closer, closer, ready to strike?
Idiot! she accused herself. Chicken! How silly. She was a sensible adult. She knew better.
She eased back out of the chamber of horrors, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply. To her other side, barely illuminated, were the recreation areas. The pool, the bowling alley. Might she hear a splash? As her imagination soared, she pictured a murderer casting a victim into the pool, blood fanning out in rich waves. Or, rolling toward the ten pins, a phantom bowling ball that would prove to be a human head.
Ugh! She’d been hanging around those who dealt in death and the macabre for far too long, she told herself. There were no sounds coming from the pool or the bowling alley.
One more place…
She glided toward the crypt and tried to open the double doors there in silence.
Naturally, the doors creaked.
It probably wasn’t that noisy, but it sounded loud enough to wake the dead.
She stepped into the crypt.
The light was so muted that she could see almost nothing in the shadows. She blinked, adjusting to the hazy glow cast by the single lantern hanging from an ancient wall fixture.
Then she froze, staring in absolute terror, chilled to the bone….
For there she was.
Cassandra Stuart.
Oh, Jesus Christ, Cassandra!
Beautiful in purple silk and gauze, the very gown in which she’d been buried, her pitch-black hair flowing around her shoulders. She lay atop her own tomb, hands folded over her breasts.
And then she began to move, sitting up, smoothing back her hair, staring at Camy with her haunting eyes….
They lay for a very long time, entwined, and at first Sabrina could do nothing but savor the delicious feel of him. His body still a part of her, his scent, heat, strength cloaking her nakedness.
Then, with a sudden, renewed burst of anger, she shoved him from her, rolling to pin him down on the bed. He stared at her with surprise.
“You’re a complete ass. Jon Stuart! Giving me a hard time about Brett. Yes, I was married to him. And you know what? I still care about him. Oh, he’s capable of being an ass, too—it seems to be something men, especially egotistical writers, are quite good at. In a way, I suppose you could even say that I love him. But our marriage is honestly over, and if you want to keep believing otherwise, then you can just crawl back under whatever rock in this big pile of stone you came out from!”
His left brow arched, and a smile tugged at his lips. “Does that mean you came for sex specifically with me?”
She started to swear, swiftly pummeling his chest. He grunted with surprise and suddenly, easily, seized her wrists. Then he rolled and, straddling her, pinned her beneath him.
“Fine,” he declared. “
Let’s be open as hell. You know what? Yeah, Cassandra was a royal pain in the ass, an incomparable bitch when she chose to be. But there was a time when she really loved me, when I loved her, and yes, in my way, I cared about her until the day she died, even if our marriage was over, and even if she was sleeping with half the castle, male and female. That’s why I—” He broke off abruptly, his lips thinning.
Sabrina inhaled sharply, staring at him. “Oh, my God! That’s it, isn’t it? The entire reason you had this party. You did love her, and you’re trying to catch her killer.”
He pushed away from her, sitting up on the side of the bed. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know that she was murdered. I saw her fall, that’s all. I was there, and all I saw was Cassie pitching over the balcony rail. It was as if she were flying, and that damn Poseidon is so close to the damned balcony that she landed right on his trident,” he finished wearily. “I was grilled by the courts, but I also hired every expert I could myself, trying to find out if she possibly could have fallen onto the trident or if she would have needed the impetus of a push.”
“And?”
He grimaced. “One scientist showed me mathematical angles that indicated she had to have been pushed. Another showed me a set of diagrams that showed why it was impossible to tell.” He shook his head again. “I wish I could have let it go, accepted it as an accident. I wish we all could have gotten on with our lives. But actually, it wasn’t my choice alone, and in the end, the wondering, the not knowing, has been worse than anything in the world. Every day of my life since she died, the tragedy has haunted me. I just keep wondering…”
“But, Jon—”
She broke off, frozen, as a sound that seemed to shake the castle itself slashed through the night. It was a scream of terror so deep and unearthly, that it was almost like a banshee wail. It seemed not so much muffled by the thick castle walls as amplified by them.
Jon was instantly up and tying his robe.
“My God!” she breathed. “What—”
The sound came again, a howl of horror and fear.
“The dungeon!” Jon exclaimed.
Even as Sabrina scrambled for her nightgown and robe, he was hurrying swiftly out the door.
“Wait!” she cried, racing after him into the hallway. He’d taken a kerosene lamp from a fixture beneath an arch and was already moving down the stairs. She followed, trying to close the distance between them. The stone floors felt icy under her bare feet, but she knew she hadn’t time to go back for shoes.
They were halfway down the stairs when a third bloodcurdling scream shrilled through the night.
And then…
There was the horrible sound of silence.
13
Thayer was just ahead of them, running into the crypt as they arrived below.
They followed.
Racing, Sabrina blinked in the dim light. Then she nearly screamed herself.
Cassandra Stuart was not inside her tomb. She was atop it, in all her beauty and glory. She was feminine and elegant and even as a ghost, in death, looked amazingly well, sitting up on the stone sarcophagus that bore her name.
Someone crashed into Sabrina’s back and screamed with instinctive, primal fear. Anna Lee, Sabrina noted vaguely, still too stunned to move or begin to comprehend what was happening in the depths of the ancient crypt.
Camy Clark, she now realized, lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Sweet Jesus!” Sabrina heard someone gasp, and she saw that Reggie had come in now as well, clasping her heart.
“Dear God!” Joe Johnston had come running in as well, only to stop short at Reggie’s side. He was followed by Joshua Valine, still tying the belt of his terry robe.
Joshua’s jaw dropped, and a strange sound escaped him.
Joe Johnston spoke again, repeating, “Dear God, dear God!”
Then Cassandra muttered a terse “Shit!” as she saw Jon, furious rather than frightened, striding across the crypt to reach for her, grabbing her forcefully by the arm.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded with an anger that caused his voice to shake.
“Let go, please!” she cried out. “I’m sorry. Don’t be angry. I didn’t intend—”
“You must have intended for someone to have a heart attack!” Jon declared, lashing out.
Sabrina just stared, certain that the world had gone insane. Jon had just been telling her remorsefully how he had nearly gone mad wondering about his wife’s death. And now here she was, flesh and blood, and he was yelling at her.
It nonsensically occurred to Sabrina that she had just committed adultery, which bothered her greatly, even if she was in a castle where it seemed that a group of rabid, insane people played musical beds.
“Look what you’ve done to Camy!” Jon thundered.
By that time, Thayer was down beside Jon’s fallen secretary, checking for a pulse. Joshua hunched down on his knees in concern, as well.
“She’s all right,” Thayer said. “Better than I am. I—I saw Cassandra dead, bleeding, three years ago,” he said in agitated confusion.
“Cassandra is dead!” Jon said irritably, and as he did so, he reached out to the ghost who had risen from Cassandra’s coffin, wrenching at the woman’s hair.
The long, flowing tresses came away. It was a wig. And then, even in the darkness, it became evident that the woman on the tomb was neither Cassandra nor Cassandra’s ghost. It was Dianne Dorsey. Despite the eerie light and chilling surroundings, something that should have been evident for years but hadn’t been became startlingly obvious. Dianne Dorsey bore a stunning resemblance to Cassandra Stuart.
“My God!” Anna Lee breathed.
“This is the cruelest, most vicious trick I’ve ever seen played,” Jon snarled angrily at the girl.
“I’m sorry, Jon, I’m sorry!” she cried. She looked at the group that had formed around her. Most of the household was there—Joe, Thayer, Joshua, Anna Lee, Reggie, Jon and Sabrina. The housekeeper and the two maids, with rooms in the attic, evidently hadn’t heard Camy’s screams, and V.J., Tom, Susan and Brett had apparently slept through them.
Camy, coming to, suddenly started screaming again. Sabrina knelt before her and the two men supporting her. “Camy, Camy!” she said, touching the woman’s face. “It’s all right. It’s not a ghost. It’s just Dianne, playing a trick.”
“It’s not a trick!” Dianne protested. “All right, I suppose it was a trick, but I didn’t mean to be vicious or cruel, I was just trying to find out which of you hated my mother enough to kill her!”
“Mother!” Joe grunted, sounding as if he was strangling.
Jon walked across the room to Camy and touched her hair. “You all right?” he asked gently.
Camy nodded. Sabrina stared up at him accusingly before rising and helping Camy to her feet. Jon stared back at her, but offered no apology.
“Mother?” Joe croaked again.
Anna Lee started to laugh. “Oh, this is really rich. Is it true?”
“Yes,” Jon said, striding back toward Dianne. His anger hadn’t abated, but it seemed to be in check. “Cassie had Dianne when she was very young. And to Cassie, no matter how young she’d been, having a grown daughter was something she didn’t want to admit publicly.”
“You knew—all along?” Joshua said, looking at Jon.
He nodded. “I thought you knew, too. I mean, I thought it would be obvious to you when you were doing their wax figures.” He shrugged. “Cassie and Dianne had both asked me not to say anything, for their own reasons, and I respected their desires. But Dianne, evidently, has changed her mind.”
He stood in front of Dianne, glaring at her.
“But…I thought you hated her!” Joe said to Dianne.
“I did,” Dianne said. Then she started to laugh. But as she laughed, tears began streaming down her face. “I hated her because her looks and youth and image were everything to her, far more important than I
was. I wanted you all to think that I hated her because that was the only way you’d talk openly in front of me, say what you were really feeling or thinking. But she was my mother, and when she was with Jon, he made her realize that I was her child, and she took an interest in me, and in my work, and we were like conspirators, both of us preserving her image of youth and beauty. And she could be so horrible and mean, but she had times when she could be loving…and…and…it didn’t matter, she was my mother, and one of you killed her!”
Jon slipped an arm around her. His anger gone, he held her tenderly. “You don’t know that anyone killed her, Dianne. And dressing up like Cassie wasn’t going to help you, honey. It just scared Camy half to death and could have put you into serious danger.”
She clung to him, suddenly looking extremely young, her makeup running, her eyes lustrous, the tough-girl image completely gone.
“If no one killed her, why would I be in danger?” Dianne whispered.
Jon was silent for a split second too long. “Because it’s a dark and stormy night in a creaky old castle,” he told her lightly.
“And we have a full moon now, too,” Reggie said.
“Are you implying that we have werewolves about?” Joe murmured teasingly, also trying to lighten the mood.
It was a strange gathering. They’d gone through shock, terror, disbelief and anger. Now they were banding together in sympathy because it was all too painfully obvious that Dianne had been deeply hurt by her mother, and just when she had finally begun to receive the love she had craved, her mother had been snatched away. She looked like a lost child; she was a lost child.
“I think vampires like full moons, as well,” Sabrina offered.
“Especially when cats are leaping out of the bag,” Anna Lee murmured.
“I think there are probably a few more cats ready to do some leaping out,” Jon said sternly, staring from one to the other of them. “We’ll meet tomorrow in the great hall and try to get to the bottom of all our little secrets, shall we?”
Never Sleep With Strangers Page 17