Heather Graham Pozzessere - Never Sleep With Strangers

And suddenly everyone at the table was hungry again. They ate like a group of loggers about to head out for hours of hard labor. But, finally, one by one, they began to leave. Sabrina, seeing Brett ahead of her, purposely lagged behind, lowering her eyes as she sipped her coffee. When she lifted her gaze again, she was startled to realize that only she and Jon remained in the room. He was seated across the table, studying her.

“It really is good to see you again,” he told her, voice husky, eyes firmly on her.

To her dismay, she felt a fluttering in her heart. “Thank you.”

He sat back, still watching her. She felt as if his eyes were penetrating her skin, and she groped about quickly for something casual to say.

“So, are you the killer?” she inquired.

He arched a brow. “Are you talking about the game—or real life?”

She flushed. “The game.”

“If I were,” he answered slowly, “I couldn’t tell you. Just as you couldn’t tell me. It wouldn’t be fair.” He leaned forward then, a dry smile curling his lips. “But don’t you want to know about real life?”

She stared back at him, feeling as if her breakfast had suddenly sunk from her stomach to her feet. “Jon, I didn’t come here to question you or to bring back unhappy memories.”

“Why not? It’s why most of the others did, both my friends and my enemies. Don’t you want to know the truth? Or did you really run away from me simply because you didn’t give a damn?”

She wasn’t going to answer that, so she stared at him and demanded, “So did you kill Cassandra? What a question! If you had killed her, you couldn’t tell me, could you? There’s no real difference between the game and real life.”

“Oh, there’s a difference, all right. As far as the game goes, I can’t tell you if I’m the killer or not. As for real life…no, definitely, decidedly, on pain of every torture God or the devil could inflict, no. I did not kill my wife. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

He arched a brow, sitting back cautiously. “Why? Why should you believe me?”

“Well, I…”

“You what? You know me?” he queried, taunting slightly. He shrugged. “You know me,” he repeated mockingly.

“I don’t pretend to really know you,” she snapped back angrily. “But you were nowhere near her when she fell—”

“She was pushed,” he stated flatly.

She lifted her hands. “How do you know?”

“Because I knew Cassandra. Very well. She was far too fond of herself for suicide.”

Seated at the huge table, his eyes dark and sharp, he looked like a medieval lord, powerful ruler of all his domain. But there was a touch of bitterness in his voice, and despite his harsh demeanor, she reflected that the years since Cassandra’s death must have hurt him very badly. Had he really loved her, despite their fights? Or had there been another woman involved, an affair gone tragically wrong? Had there been another man, and did Jon Stuart still harbor anger deep in his soul?

He was still staring at her, his dark marbled gaze seeming to pierce through her, seeking something, giving nothing. The lines around his eyes had deepened since she’d seen him last; he had aged, and yet he was even more attractive then he had been, and she felt as if she could feel his power reaching out across the table to mesmerize her.

Was she a fool? Even if he hadn’t pushed Cassandra himself, he could have been her killer. Plenty of people seemed to think it would have been a miracle if he wasn’t the one to murder her….

He was still watching, waiting.

She shrugged. “From what I understand, nothing is certain. You can’t be certain of anything, just because you think you knew her. She might have simply slipped and fallen. She might have been reckless. We none of us really ever know one another, do—”

“Cassandra didn’t kill herself.”

“Maybe that’s what you want to believe.”

“Maybe it’s the truth.”

“Jon, she had cancer. She might have felt that—”

“She was already undergoing treatments.”

“But she was a woman, and women can be vain. Maybe she was afraid of losing her hair, her looks—or even losing you because of it.”

He shook his head impatiently. “She knew about the cancer when we were married. She told me about it, so she knew I was aware of everything we might be going through. She didn’t kill herself. And she was very coordinated. She didn’t trip.”

“Well, then, in your mind, you definitely believe that someone murdered her.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But who—”

He leaned forward. She could see leashed tension in the pounding of a vein in his throat.

“Someone killed her,” he said harshly, “but I didn’t. And the matter of who did is not your concern. I don’t want you involved in any way.”

“But—”

“Why did you run away from me?” he asked abruptly.

“What? I—I—”

“Don’t stutter. And don’t tell me that it was a long time ago, or that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

She lifted her hands. “Cassandra came. I left.”

“Why?”

Sabrina stared at him blankly. “It really was a long time ago—”

“Why?” he interrupted more heatedly.

“She said she was your fiancée. Apparently, she was.”

He shook his head angrily. “We were broken up. I had no commitments. I told you that.”

She shrugged. “But you married her.”

“Later. Yes, I did marry her. She was beautiful and tempting and all the rest, and we did have a history between us. And she was afraid of facing her illness alone, and she wanted me to be with her, and yes, she was a bitch as well, and yes again, it wasn’t working at all and I was planning on getting a divorce.”

There was a strange anger in his voice, as if he were revealing intimacies under duress, as if the words were spilling from him against his will. Then his tone changed abruptly and he queried wryly, “And what about you? Running naked from your honeymoon suite in Paris?”

“That was a long time ago as well, and it’s really—”

“None of my business? You’re absolutely right. It isn’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.” He smiled a little. “Whenever you’re ready to tell me.”

She stared at him, surprised to find that she was not offended. His words might have been blunt, even arrogant, but from the way he smiled, she suddenly realized that he understood a great deal.

“Hey!”

Camy Clark came back into the great hall and put her hands on her hips. “You guys are supposed to return to your rooms for the next hour—and that means you, too, boss!” she said firmly.

“Okay, okay, we’re leaving,” Jon assured her.

He got to his feet with a lithe, easy movement and managed to be at Sabrina’s seat before she could rise. He stood behind her, graciously pulling out her chair. His scent was masculine and subtle—of soap and a hint of aftershave. He remained one of the most attractive and sensual men she had ever met, and even without touching, she could feel him at her back with every fiber of her being. She was tempted to turn around and throw herself at him.

Naturally, she didn’t.

She rose, thanked him and smiled at Camy. And, leaving the great hall, she fairly flew up the stairs.

Yet as she reached her door on the second floor, she felt him behind her again. Knew he was there before he spoke.

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