Lovers Never Lie Page 3

  The line suddenly moved faster. The luggage carousel was just ahead, with her suitcase perched on top of the chute ready to hurtle down. Stacia prayed it wouldn't open again, could envision too clearly her underwear circling round and round on top of other people's baggage. When her suitcase had successfully navigated the drop, she let out her breath slowly.

  "Got anything to hide?"

  She whirled around and found Andrew's blue gaze fixed intently on her face.

  "Greek customs' officials are amongst the toughest in the world," he added.

  She frowned, didn't answer, and moved away through the crowd to retrieve her bag. She heaved it off the carousel then looked for Andrew again. Couldn't see him.

  Seemed impossible he'd been faster than her, but if she didn't see him again, it would save any need for final words. His disappearance felt funny though, made the trip feel unfinished. Especially as he'd suggested they get together in Athens. It was disconcerting how disappointed she felt that they wouldn't.

  A man lunged for his bag as it swept around the carousel away from him. Stacia shifted sideways, made her way out of the path of those still collecting their luggage, and headed with other passengers towards the customs' desk.

  Once through customs, she would hit the tourist bureau. No, the hotel first, where she would find Mr. Andropolous's son and get rid of the package.

  A large woman with damp patches under her arms suddenly blocked Stacia's way. They both danced crazily in an effort to get around each other. The large woman smiled and gestured to her right, then glanced over Stacia's shoulder and her eyes widened.

  There was no time to turn, no time to think. A flash of light, a sudden roar, and Stacia's world burst apart.

  Chapter 3

  The blast swept Stacia off her feet and flung her like a rag doll sideways into the crowd. The large woman flew with her, their limbs entwined in a tangled web of soft flesh and hard bones. With a painful thump, they landed together on the ground.

  The air fled Stacia's lungs. The suffocating smell of acrid smoke filled the space left behind.

  Madness erupted. Muted confusion became screams of terror. Moans and piteous crying swelled to the high-pitched keening of the wounded.

  Andrew. His image wobbled in and out of Stacia's consciousness, piercing the fog surrounding her brain. She lifted her head, and a pain unconnected to broken bones or punctured skin penetrated her soul.

  She couldn't bear for it to happen, for death to strike her life again so soon. She didn't love Andrew as she had loved her father, barely knew him in fact, but she wouldn't allow him to be dead.

  He had to have been behind her, somewhere closer to the blast. She struggled to rise, but something heavy lay across her shoulders. She curled her fingers into fists and pushed her upper body from the ground. The person on top groaned, and flopped to one side.

  Other passengers raised their heads, and gazed around, also, their hands reaching for the reassuring presence of loved ones. She couldn't see Andrew. Stacia sucked in a breath and struggled to beat back her fear.

  Other people slowly stood and clutched at family members, picked up their suitcases, and swiftly moved away. It was as though another bomb, if that's what the explosion had been, was about to blow them up at any moment.

  Stacia got to her feet and glanced toward the luggage carousel. It was a twisted mass of jagged metal, covered in and surrounded by scraps of fluttering material. Suitcases full of clothes had been flung high by the blast and lay scattered like broken matchsticks, their contents exposed. Stacia forced her way toward the carousel, fighting against an ever-increasing tide of panic-stricken passengers going in the opposite direction.

  "Andrew," she called, her cry a croaked whisper.

  Alarms went off, some loud and strident, others with the mind-numbing syncopation of police sirens.

  Uniformed officials, their faces white and strained, pushed their way through the crowd. They commanded in loud voices that those passengers who were able should move to the left side of the customs' lounge quickly and quietly.

  "Andrew!" Stacia shouted again, louder this time.

  "Stacia!"

  She heard him call her name before his hand touched her shoulder. She swung around to face him, found his eyes two bottomless wells of blue, and his arms a haven. With a muffled cry, she fell into his embrace and wrapped herself in his comforting warmth.

  She stood against him trembling, stunned by the enormity of her relief. He clung to her as tightly, the heat from his body penetrating the chill encasing her own. Vaguely, she became aware of the official again, who was urging them both to move.

  Embarrassed, she pulled herself away from Andrew's arms. "I thought you'd been killed," she mumbled.

  "I'm glad you care," he said softly.

  "Of course, I care." She didn't look at him, stared instead at the chaos surrounding them.

  "Come on," he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Let's get out of here."

  * * *

  Getting out of there would have taken longer if Andrew hadn't smoothed the way, Stacia admitted to herself ruefully. He had located her suitcases as well as his own and had led Stacia to where they were supposed to go. On the way, he had helped others; a woman and her child, an old man dazed and staggering. Despite the confusion engulfing the hall, they had been processed, their passports stamped, and their bags passed back to them.

  The police, a special emergency squad by the looks of their uniforms, had watched the customs officers work. They had eyed each passenger suspiciously and demanded addresses of where they could be reached in Athens.

  Andrew's eyebrows lifted when Stacia gave the name of the Hotel Athena. Not staying with friends, the compressed line of his mouth seemed to say.

  But none of that mattered, she decided dully, not compared to the explosion and the danger they'd been in, the fact some people were injured, perhaps even killed.

  She couldn't tell the full extent of the damage, for the police had erected barriers, screening off the area from passengers' curious stares. When they began to carry out stretchers, she looked away, determined to stop the trembling from beginning again.

  Along with the other passengers, she and Andrew were escorted through the yellow-ribboned police lines. The crush was unbelievable, the confusion overwhelming. Joyful greetings took place as terrified relatives hailed emerging passengers. Noisy reunions resulted with everyone talking at once.

  The police cleared the building, and directed the crowd out the side doors. Taxis, too, had been diverted away from the main entrance, away from interference with police vehicles and ambulances.

  "Wait here," Andrew instructed. He dropped his bag at Stacia's feet and moved swiftly away. "I'll get a cab."

  "I—" Stacia bit back her words. There was no point in calling after him. At least he'd be easier to spot in this country, standing head and shoulders as he did above everyone else.

  The taxis were lined up helter-skelter, nose in to the sidewalk. Their prospective passengers were equally chaotic. People jerked open the doors before the taxi had even stopped and lunged in before someone else got there first.

  Stacia felt drained. She yearned for the silence of her hotel room and a long soothing soak in a hot bath. Anything to push back the images of bombs and destruction.

  Images of Andrew, also.

  With a frown, she dumped her bags on top of his, not able to go her own way while watching his luggage as well as her own. She could see him now, crouched over and speaking to one of the taxi drivers, then all at once he straightened and waved in her direction.

  He smiled like a small boy bringing home a prize, making it difficult to hang on to her annoyance. Stacia averted her face to hide her answering smile, and stared at the crowd instead. People choked the sidewalk, pushing and shoving in their eagerness to depart. Except for a couple strolling towards her, who seemed to have no business at the airport at all. They had no luggage, no air of purpose.

  T
he horror of the bomb still sat inside Stacia's brain ready to explode a second time. She rolled her shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen her tension. She mustn't look at every person passing as though they were the bombers themselves.

  The couple drew closer. The woman's jeans were frayed, the holes in the knees beyond repair. Probably the leader of fashion in her own circle of friends.

  Someone bumped against Stacia and she pulled her luggage closer, straddling the largest suitcase with her legs before glancing again at the unkempt couple.

  The woman's companion ran grimy fingers through his uncombed hair. His gaze shifted from side to side, not resting on anything.

  Some defense mechanism inside Stacia jarred to life. She slung her purse around her neck and clutched its strap, meanwhile tightening her legs around her suitcase. The couple parted as they approached her, the man going left, and the woman right.

  Close up, the expression in the man's eyes made Stacia's skin crawl. Goose bumps erupted on her neck and traveled across her shoulders. She twisted around to follow his movement, not trusting to lift her gaze from his deliberate saunter. Then with a suddenness that stunned, he began to run.

  A sudden slash of a knife disturbed the air on Stacia's right, creating a breeze, an instant of cold. Her purse fell from her shoulder, and the woman was now running, holding Stacia's purse in her hand. The strap the woman had cut dragged on the floor behind her.

  Stacia screamed in protest, but the sound of her scream was as inaudible as gull's cry in the face of a storm. Untangling her feet, she chased after the couple.

  The next time she screamed, people heard her. But the man and woman were elusive, darting and dodging so swiftly, onlookers had no time to react.

  Stacia tried to run faster but the only feeling in her legs was numbness. She might have been moving in slow motion, she made so little progress. There were no guards here to help, and no police. They were all inside the airport, dealing with a disaster much more serious than a stolen purse.

  Rage surged through her. There had been too much taking. Taking purses, taking lives. It had to stop. Suddenly Stacia heard footsteps thundering behind. Irrationally, terror replaced the rage, engulfing her as though she were the one pursued.

  She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Didn't want to think.

  The footsteps drew closer, but she couldn't run any faster. There were too many people. Her throat was raw with the effort of calling out, of simply breathing. Amazingly, the woman appeared in front of her again. Stacia's rage resurfaced. Everything she needed was in that purse—her money, passport, tickets, and hotel vouchers. She lunged for the woman's shirt, but the thief side-stepped and she missed. The man was suddenly there instead and in his hand was another knife.

  He slashed at Stacia's face, but she twisted away. The next instant he was gone, and the woman was gone, too.

  A hand clamped onto Stacia's shoulder and swung her around.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Andrew's eyes blazed into hers.

  "They've taken my purse." Her hands formed fists and she raised them to Andrew's chest.

  "So you chased them? Risked getting killed?"

  "Everything I need is in that purse."

  "It's not worth dying over." His fingers tightened on her shoulder. "Tell me what happened."

  "Two people... a man... a woman." She struggled to think clearly. "The man looked so... dangerous." An uncontrollable spasm shook her entire body.

  Andrew grabbed hold of her other shoulder and drew his hands down the length of her arms. She crossed her arms in front of her, unsettled by his touch.

  "The woman—"

  "Slowly. Just tell me slowly." He touched her again, but lightly, as though to gentle her.

  "The woman took my purse. Cut the strap. Pulled on it." She glared at him. "If I hadn't been anchored with all that luggage..."

  Andrew glanced critically at her waist. "Travel rule number three, Ms Roberts, you should have worn a money belt."

  "Well, I didn't." Although the guide books had made that recommendation, too. She had planned to buy a leather one in Athens. "Just go away," she muttered, furious with herself.

  "And leave you here alone?"

  "Yes!"

  "You need me."

  "I do not need you."

  "How do you plan to pay for a taxi into Athens?"

  Her stomach gave a sickening lurch.

  "Do you have money stashed anywhere else?"

  "No."

  "Traveler's checks?"

  Wordlessly, she shook her head. The cash in the envelope had been enough. She hadn't bothered with traveler's checks.

  She had money in the bank back home, but to send for it would take time. Besides, it was the weekend. No banks would be open. The sick feeling intensified. Her hotel vouchers were gone, along with her passport, bank card, and credit cards.

  "I wouldn't count on getting anything back," Andrew said. "In the meantime—"

  Her ears buzzed.

  "—you'd better come with me."

  "Come with you?" she repeated incredulously.

  "I don't see you have much choice."

  The sick feeling deepened to desperation.

  "We'll report the theft to the police," he said, taking her by the arm, "then check into a hotel. But we'll get our luggage first. Better hope it's still there."

  Stacia stifled a gasp. Mr. Andropolous's package was in her suitcase. Her clothes she could afford to lose. She couldn't lose the package.

  An old woman was sitting on Stacia's suitcase when they returned, her own small bundle at her feet and a crooked wooden cane lying menacingly across her lap. When she caught sight of Stacia, she smiled and stood. Andrew thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out an American ten dollar bill. With an emphatic shake of her head, the woman melted away into the crowd.

  Two airport guards, too late to catch the thieves, emerged at last from the now near empty airport. With their stern and tense expressions, they looked as impossible to approach as any villain. Fatigue washed over Stacia, but she took a bag in each hand and stuck close to Andrew as he pushed his way toward the guards.

  * * *

  "I'm booked at the Hotel Athena," Stacia said wearily, when finally she and Andrew climbed into a cab.

  "So you told the police before. Why did you lie to me?"

  "Surely you know why! It's probably one of your rules! Never let on to strangers where you are staying."

  He didn't answer.

  "It's only for a night or two." Once she got rid of the package, she would move somewhere else.

  "Why the Athena?" Andrew watched her closely through narrow eyes.

  "I have to meet someone there." Mr. Stone had said to tell no one, but Mr. Stone hadn't figured she would lose all her money. The inside of Stacia's cheek felt raw from chewing.

  "The Athena's expensive."

  "I'll pay you back." If it took every cent in her savings account. "My bank will be open Monday and I'll phone the U.S. Embassy. They probably have an aid fund for stranded travelers."

  Andrew shrugged, then leaned forward and gave the taxi driver the name of the Athena.

  * * *

  Stacia tilted her head backward, but still couldn't see every detail of the vaulted ceiling. All of Mount Olympus could have fit into the Athena's lobby, and after the too-fast, blistering hot taxi ride, the hotel's cool, tomb-like interior felt wonderfully peaceful. She hadn't dared shut her eyes in the taxi, convinced that if she did, they would never make it to their destination alive.

  There was no sign of Andropolous's son. She had hoped he would be here when she arrived, relaxing in one of the lobby's deep-cushioned chairs. She cast another glance around. There were people in the lobby, but none of them seemed to be looking for her. Though Andropolous's son might not realize she was the courier. He wouldn't be expecting her to be accompanied by a man.

  Perhaps he had left a message. Stacia moved toward the reception desk where Andrew stood frowning at the
clerk.

  "I'm sorry, sir," the clerk said, "but it's the best I can do."

  "Then it will have to do," Andrew replied grimly, looking suddenly as weary as Stacia felt. He scrawled something on the register and turned to face her. "Ready?"

  "You've registered already?" She glanced at the clerk. "Are there any messages for me? My name's Stacia Roberts."

  "Roberts?" The clerk cast Andrew a puzzled glance.

  "Her maiden name," Andrew explained swiftly. "We're newlyweds. Come along, darling." Unexpectedly, he took Stacia by the arm and brushed her cheek with his lips.

  Stacia raised her hand to her cheek, her heart suddenly pounding.

  "Just play along," Andrew whispered, his lips now skimming her ear. "If they get any messages for you, darling," he said, speaking louder, "they'll send them on up." He glanced inquiringly at the clerk.

  "Certainly, sir. Immediately."

  Stacia tried to pull her arm away. Andrew's grip tightened.

  "What's going on? Have you gone mad?"

  He followed the porter toward the elevator, pulling her along with him. "I'll explain when we get to the room," he murmured, not looking crazy, simply out of sorts.

  The porter halted in front of the wrought iron doors of an ancient elevator. An ornate metal cage swept toward them from above and settled to a halt with a gentle hiss.

  The door slid open and the pressure of Andrew's fingers on Stacia's elbow increased. She snatched her arm free and stepped into the elevator. She'd follow Andrew's lead for the moment, but he'd damned well better have a good explanation.

  On the sixth floor, the elevator shuddered to a stop. The porter led the way down a plush carpeted hall to a pair of double doors. When he swung them wide open, Stacia stared into the room.

  This hotel was expensive. Ornate antique furniture rested on Persian carpets, and marble fixtures gleamed from the bathroom beyond. But it was the view that must have cost the earth. Across the intervening roof tops, the white columns of the Parthenon climbed toward the sky.

  With difficulty, Stacia pulled her gaze from the magic of antiquity. Andrew didn't seem in the least bit stunned by the hotel's grandeur. He carelessly slipped the porter some money and shut the door behind him.