Lovers Never Lie Read online

  She gazed numbly up at him.

  "Open it," he said, holding the package toward her.

  She couldn't do what he said. Not in front of him. Her breathing slowed, her heart thudded, then slowly, reluctantly, she put out her hand.

  It felt as it always did, had the same weight, the same soft solidity, the faint crinkle of paper when squeezed.

  "It's not yours to see," she protested, staring once more into his eyes.

  "What's in the package is mine and I'm telling you to open it."

  If she didn't open it, he would. Stacia started at a corner, gently eased the tape from the paper. She was torn between making sure the contents of the package could be put back no one the wiser, and ripping it open and flinging it in Andrew's face.

  The sweater spilled into her hands. Black, the color of Greece, of dignity, and wisdom.

  Stacia lowered her gaze to cover her anguish. She had known what was in the package, but had prayed that somehow a miracle would occur, that the contents would become what Andrew expected.

  He took the sweater from her hand and held it by its shoulders. An envelope fell to the floor between them. There was no avoiding his eyes now. Bleakly, she looked up.

  He wasn't looking at her, but was staring grimly at the sweater. When he did look up, a line scored his brow.

  "You didn't know, did you?" His voice resonated with relief.

  "Know what?" she asked. "That you weren't telling me the truth?"

  Chapter 9

  A knock sounded at the door, lightly, at first, with the knuckles, then harder, as though whoever it was had stretched their fingers flat and now pounded with their palms.

  With difficulty Stacia wrenched her gaze off Andrew, but was unable to lift the numbness in her soul, unable to respond to the message her brain sent demanding movement.

  Andrew dropped the sweater onto Stacia's bed and answered the door for her. He flung it wide then stood aside so Stacia could see.

  "Miss Argyle!" Stacia whispered, her voice deadened with the pain still lapping at her heart.

  "Thank heavens, it is you." Mary Argyle stepped inside, her face grey beneath the dusting of make-up she'd applied to her dry skin. Lines ran between her brows and her chest heaved.

  "Are you all right?" Stacia asked. Impulsively, she clasped the older woman's hand, whose fingers felt as fragile as the bones of a bird.

  "No. Yes. I... I think so," Mary said uncertainly. Her gaze darted from Stacia to Andrew, then lit back on Stacia.

  "You're ice cold," Stacia exclaimed. She gently massaged the older woman's hand, just as she had massaged her grandmother's limbs when the winter weather brought on her arthritis. But it wasn't cold here. Sweat trickled down Stacia's spine, gluing her cotton blouse to her back.

  "Thank goodness you're here," Mary fluttered again. "I spotted you this morning from my balcony. I had no idea we'd booked into the same hotel. I asked the clerk—" She panted for air as though she were all out.

  "What's happened?" Andrew demanded.

  The old woman's hand suddenly clenched, squeezing Stacia's fingers with surprising strength.

  "No doubt, I'm being foolish," Mary said, her voice wavering. "Someone tried to get into my room."

  "Break in, you mean?" Stacia cried.

  "Just a moment ago." Mary's blue eyes watered. "I don't know if he's still around or not, but he frightened me."

  "Which room is yours," Andrew demanded.

  "Just down the hall from this one. Number 416."

  Andrew strode through the door and into the hall.

  "You mustn't go after him yourself," Mary called out, but Andrew had already disappeared. She took a small step forward, as though she meant to follow. "It's dangerous," she finished feebly, teetering back onto her heels. She sank onto Stacia's bed.

  Stacia watched her worriedly.

  "Your young man might get hurt," the older woman said.

  "He's not my young man," Stacia protested automatically, but her protest was no longer truthful and that scared her more than any possible thief lurking about. It was dangerous to care this much, to love Andrew, and need him, to want him to need her.

  Mary gazed skeptically at her.

  "He won't get hurt," Stacia said fiercely, wishing she could be sure of that. She wanted Andrew to walk safely through the doorway this minute.

  With a sudden shiver, Mary clasped together her trembling hands. "I hope so, my dear. I hope so."

  "You're cold," Stacia said, sitting next to her on the bed. Her own teeth began to chatter.

  "Perhaps just a little." Mary picked up Mr. Andropolous's sweater. "Might I just wrap this around my—"

  "No!"

  At Stacia's exclamation, Mary's eyes filled with astonishment.

  Stacia swallowed hard and held out her hand. "It's not my sweater," she said more quietly.

  "I thought you might have made it," Mary said, with a faint smile. "I knit myself, you know. Nothing as lovely or ambitious as this. Just baby sweaters and the like for my nephew's children." She rubbed her hand over the wool. "But this is new. Did Andrew give it to you?" She didn't wait for Stacia to respond, didn't look at her even. Mary's gaze was on the wool, her fingers gently caressing. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything untoward by it, dear," she continued on primly. "It's a lovely souvenir from Crete."

  "I– "

  "Although you can never be sure, can you?" Two spots of pink formed on the older woman's cheeks. Her eyes grew brighter, too. "In my day, no woman would consider accepting a present from a young man, excepting, of course, if they were engaged." She stared curiously at Stacia. "Are you engaged, my dear?"

  "No," Stacia said firmly, and got to her feet.

  "But something has happened. Your face is quite flushed."

  Nothing had happened. Nothing with any meaning. If she said it often enough, perhaps she would believe it. Making love had meant nothing to Andrew, and to survive she had to convince herself it meant nothing to her either.

  "You don't have to tell me," Mary said briskly. "Perhaps it's the sort of news you'll want to share with your mother first."

  Her mother. Stacia's throat closed over. Her mother had missed most of her other firsts: her first day at high school, her first piano recital, her first date, the first time she'd made love.... Stacia averted her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. It wasn't her mother's fault. She had wanted to live, not die.

  The old woman touched her shoulder with a trembling hand. Stacia drew in a deep breath, and swiftly swept away her tears.

  "There's nothing to tell," she said numbly. She had to start now as she meant to go on—strongly, independently. Yet she was caught in her doubts and the icy grip of fear.

  Mary's gaze jerked toward the balcony. "Did you hear something?" she asked hoarsely. She moved toward the sliding door and opened it.

  "When?" Stacia whispered.

  "Just now. A noise." The old woman clutched the black sweater to her chest. "Outside, I think."

  "Impossible," Stacia said, but her heart began to race. "We're four stories up." Even so she had no intention of venturing out onto that balcony, or allowing Mary to go there either. Dark was beginning to fall, and if a thief did roam the building, she didn't want to meet him.

  "It's possible to climb from balcony to balcony," Mary said fearfully.

  "Surely not!"

  "Two years ago, in Egypt, I had a thief in my room." The old woman turned toward the balcony doors. "The balcony ran the length of the building. He jimmied my door open." She gave a delicate shudder. "Since then, I've been very careful."

  "How do you mean?"

  Mary's bird face turned pink. "My nephew made me a wedge of wood to put underneath my door. Works like a charm."

  "Didn't you use it this time?"

  "It doesn't work with sliding doors." With a soft sigh, Mary ran her hand once more over the sweater. "Your young man's been gone a long while."

  "He might need help." Stacia moved toward the door. "I'm going to find hi
m. Just stay here. Don't go anywhere."

  "Of course, my dear, but don't you think—"

  Stacia shut her ears to Mary's protest and left the room quickly. Her limbs might be stiff and her reactions dull, but it felt suddenly imperative to make sure Andrew was safe.

  The door to Mary's room was open wide, but the room itself was empty. She stepped cautiously inside, and stood for a moment listening.

  Where could Andrew be? Another panic, more chilling than the first, descended on her. She pressed her eyes shut and prayed it would disappear, prayed, too, that the need within would dissolve.

  "Stacia?"

  She opened her eyes. Quiet as a specter, Andrew slipped through the balcony's sliding doors. He came close and touched her arm, his fingers drawing fire.

  "Are you all right?" he demanded urgently. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

  "Just you." She smiled shakily. "I wondered where you had gone."

  "You were worried about me?" he asked, his own returning smile sending a current racing through her body.

  "Not really," she denied, wishing her words were true, wishing she didn't love this man she couldn't trust.

  "Liar," he said softly, touching her cheek.

  "Did you find the intruder?" she asked, a blaze erupting where he touched her.

  "No," Andrew muttered. His gaze drifted around the room, pulled hers along with it.

  Mary's scents and powders were lined up against the dressing table's mirror. A silver-backed brush and hand mirror lay face down before them. In the open closet, her clothes hung neatly, color coded and arranged by type; pastel-colored blouses to the left, neatly ironed skirts to the right. Nothing was out of place. There was nothing special enough to steal.

  Andrew shrugged then turned back to Stacia. "Where's the sweater?" he demanded.

  "In my room."

  "You left it there alone?"

  "Miss Argyle's there."

  "But there's an intruder about." He hurried through the doorway.

  Stacia followed, and saw Mary at the far end of the hall, moving away from them down the corridor.

  "Mary," she cried.

  The old woman turned.

  "Where are you going? Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," Mary called back, but she put her hand against the corridor wall as if to brace herself.

  Stacia hurried forward, glad to have Andrew by her side.

  "You seemed to be taking so long," the old woman said as they drew near.

  "We were only gone a moment." Stacia laid her arm reassuringly around Mary's shoulders.

  "I thought you might need help," Mary continued. "I was... was going to get the hotel owner."

  "I'll let him know what happened," Andrew said. "Come and sit for a moment." He motioned toward Stacia's room.

  Stacia walked with Mary through the narrow doorway and sat with her on the end of the bed.

  "Did you find him," the old woman asked, staring up at Andrew with anxious eyes. Beneath Stacia's arm, her body trembled.

  Andrew glanced at the sweater still clutched in Mary's hand. "Are you positive you heard something?"

  "Oh yes," Mary said sharply. "I'm not a senile old woman, if that's what you think."

  "We don't think anything of the sort," Stacia reassured her.

  "That's not what I meant," Andrew said quietly. "Tell us what happened."

  "I had a headache, so I decided to lie down. It's the glare from the sun, you know." As Mary's words spilled out, she seemed to gain confidence. "I wore my hat and my sun glasses when I went outside, even stopped off after my stroll for a cup of tea in that restaurant along the harbor front. I had the nicest chat with the proprietor. His youngest son owns a cafe in Dorset. Rather close to where I'm from."

  "The headache?" Andrew murmured, looking dazed by the flood of information.

  Stacia suppressed a grin. Andrew obviously wasn't used to old women. Grandmother Roberts had prided herself on getting to the point, but even she made you feel like a mouse in a maze.

  "I came back to the hotel and asked the owner's mother-in-law, a very helpful woman, I must say, if she had any headache tablets I could purchase. I felt a little dizzy and didn't feel up to braving the chemist's shop. The thought of struggling through my dictionary...." Mary shuddered. "The landlord's mother-in-law brought me a pot of tea and a very soothing balm for my forehead."

  "And the intruder?" Andrew asked.

  "I drank my tea, then pulled the curtains and lay down on my bed. I must have dropped off to sleep, but a sound woke me."

  "Where was it coming from?"

  "The balcony," Mary answered. "I lay quite, quite, still." She shot them a swift smile. "I'm not sure I could have moved if I wanted to."

  Being paralyzed with fear was something Stacia could understand, or with love even, unable to move a muscle.

  "What kind of sound was it?" Andrew's concentration was completely focused on Mary and her story. His intensity seemed to fluster the older woman as much as it did Stacia. It was a power he had, a force to which women especially seemed vulnerable.

  Mary flushed, and her eyebrows drew together as though she was trying to remember. "A sort of thump," she finally said. "It sounded as though someone had dropped something."

  "Could it have come from the room next to yours?"

  "No." Her denial was firm. "It was from my balcony and it was directly after the thump that I saw the shadow."

  "Shadow?" Stacia asked.

  "Against my curtains. It was there for only an instant, before it disappeared."

  "Could it have been the shadow of a cloud?" Stacia suggested. That thought was preferable to the alternative of someone skulking around the hotel. At least there was no way the intruder could have been Andrew. He had been with her, opening the package.

  The will, Stacia suddenly remembered, glancing at the floor. The envelope still lay where it had dropped. She picked it up and held it behind her back. A chill passed over her as she did so, as though a cloud was really there.

  "It was no cloud," Mary said indignantly. "I may have been afraid, but I'm not blind."

  "Is there anything you have that a thief might want?" Andrew asked.

  "I can't think of a thing." The old woman shrugged. "My money is all in traveler's checks and I carry those with me. Mind you," she said shrewdly, "a burglar wouldn't know that."

  "Did he come into your room at all?" Stacia asked.

  "I frightened him off," Mary replied proudly, the pink deepening on her cheeks. "My knitting bag was next to my bed. I picked it up then dropped it again to the floor. It made quite a noise."

  She looked so triumphant, Stacia hadn't the heart to remind her that discretion was the safer part of valor.

  "You could have been hurt," Andrew chided.

  "Perhaps so, young man, but I assumed whoever was out there would leave when they realized the room was occupied."

  "We should report this to the police," Stacia said.

  "I'll do it." Mary stood, looking quite unlike the frightened woman who had pounded on Stacia's door just minutes before. "And I'm going to complain to the management of this hotel. It's disgraceful when elderly women are frightened in their beds. The owner must be made to do something!" She hobbled toward the door.

  Stacia swiftly followed her. "My sweater, Mary," she said, touching the old woman's arm.

  "Gracious!" Mary said. "I'd forgotten." She glanced past Stacia and smiled at Andrew. "A lovely choice, young man. Black's not quite the color for a young woman, but it will certainly suit Stacia's skin tones. And unless I miss my guess, you paid a pretty penny for it."

  Andrew returned the smile grimly.

  Stacia took the sweater from Mary and rubbed it against her cheek, hiding her face from Andrew. Her skin felt suddenly hot enough to singe the wool, and she remained motionless even after Mary passed through the door.

  "So you told her I gave it to you?" he said softly.

  "Of course I didn't," she denied.


  "She's under that impression."

  Stacia lowered the sweater and stared him in the eyes. "None of that matters, Andrew." She jutted her chin forward.

  "It's time you told me the truth."

  He stepped toward her, his silhouette forbidding against the day's last light shafting in through the window.

  Stacia caught her breath. No matter what he said, all joy was lost. If he took the will, he'd been lying to her all along; if he denied all knowledge, he was lying to her now.

  She steadied her breathing. Whatever the outcome, she had to know.

  He drew near enough to touch. Desire rose within her, as fierce as the noonday sun, and along with it came the longing to flee this room with its secrets and shadows and lie once again on the rocks. To become lost in the moment and the heat of the man. To think of nothing. To simply feel.

  His hand curled around hers and she stared down at his fingers, so elegantly boned, but so much larger than her own. So much stronger, yet gentle. His fingers formed a fence, but she was confident if she moved, she could lift that barrier, that no matter who he was, they had shared something more powerful than physical strength.

  They were bound in a way she could not afford, for the binding was dangerous, the illusion of safety, perilous. Grimly, she raised her gaze to his.

  His eyes were steady in the waning light.

  She longed to pull her hand from his and touch her fingers to the lamp switch, to illuminate his eyes and disperse the secrets of his heart. But if making love under the Mediterranean sun was unable to perform such a feat, what chance had mere electricity.

  "My name is Andrew Moore," he told her again softly. "It isn't Andropolous. There is no will and testament." He reached behind her back and took the envelope from her.

  She cried out as he ripped it open, but inside there was simply a single piece of paper, a blank piece of paper with no writing on it.

  He took the sweater from her, too, and held it up. It was beautiful in its simplicity, made of the softest wool.

  "No will," he said again. His eyes held hers like the eyes of a magician as he touched the baubles sewn to the front. They were the sweater's only decoration, simple, yet strangely fashionable.