Lovers Never Lie Page 4

  "Why did you lie about us being married?" Stacia demanded.

  "To get us a room," Andrew replied cryptically. He unzipped his bag and dumped its contents on the bed, then heaved her bag up beside his.

  "We're not both staying here?" she croaked, suddenly nervous now that the porter had left her alone with a mad man.

  "Yup."

  "But where—"

  "There's plenty of space." He grabbed a pile of shirts and placed them in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

  "If you think for one minute—"

  He turned to her, and grinned. "Just think of it as protecting your honor."

  "My honor?"

  "They needed a passport for registration and you don't have yours. It was simpler to say you were with me."

  "Simpler?" Andrew's eyes seemed bluer than ever. Blue. Brown. White slave trader's eyes came in all colors according to her father.

  "There didn't seem any other choice." He turned away, picked up a bundle of shorts and pants and dropped them in the drawer next to his shirts.

  "I must have my own room," Stacia stated firmly. Andrew might be a man used to making decisions, but he wasn't deciding for her. Sitting next to him on the plane had been difficult enough, sharing a room was unthinkable." Couldn't we get a suite with two adjoining bedrooms? That wouldn't require me showing a passport."

  He carried his shaving gear into the bathroom.

  "If it's the money you're worried about—"

  He came out again, his bulk filling the bathroom doorway. "It's not the money."

  "What then?"

  "I don't know you," he said softly, "but somehow you've become my responsibility."

  "You are not responsible for me! The embassy—" His smile stopped her.

  "Whether you'll admit it or not," he said, "you have no money, no passport, and no ticket out of here. I have all three and I don't mind sharing." One brow lifted. "So seeing as how I'm investing in you," he added slowly, "I'm sticking to you like glue."

  Stacia stared at him in disbelief.

  "This is the last reservation they have in the place," he continued. "Your reservation seems to have vanished with the wind." He glanced appreciatively around the room before turning back to her. "Welcome to the honeymoon suite."

  Chapter 4

  Stacia stared past Andrew to the far side of the room, her gaze drawn irresistibly to the King-sized bed covered in quilts and fluffy pillows.

  A love nest. Ideal for honeymooners.

  Which she and Andrew Moore were not.

  Her cheeks hot, she tugged her gaze away from the bed. "We can't stay here together."

  Andrew shrugged. "Up to you."

  Stacia sucked in a breath. He knew damn well she had no place else to go.

  "We're both adults, Stacia. I didn't think this would be a problem."

  "If you think—"

  "You keep your distance and I'll keep mine."

  "Fine." She took in another breath. "You take the couch and I'll take the bed." That ought to dispel any notions he might have.

  "How about we toss for it?" He slipped off his shirt and pulled a cotton sweater from the drawer. "That couch is pretty damn short—"

  "Live with it," she said, her heart pounding furiously. "This was your idea, remember."

  "Fine," he said, the word muffled as he pulled his sweater over his head.

  His chest was as broad in the flesh as it had appeared fully clothed. A line of black hair drew Stacia's gaze down to the waistband of his pants.

  Unsought sensations blasted through her, bringing heat to her face. She pressed her lips together and turned away, determined to ignore what she was feeling, and furious with herself for being so shy. It just seemed too personal, too intimate, standing next to a bed in a strange country with a man she had just met.

  A tap sounded at the door. With a sense of relief, Stacia moved to open it. Andrew got there first, his sweater scarcely settled over his bare skin.

  Two policemen stood in the doorway, their legs apart and their feet resting solidly on the floor.

  "Yes, officers?" Andrew said politely.

  The policeman with a pencil-thin moustache consulted his note pad. "Mr. Moore?" he said, glancing up at Andrew.

  "Yes."

  "And Miss Roberts?"

  "Yes." She moved forward eagerly. "Have you found my purse?"

  "Your purse?" The officer seemed puzzled.

  "It was stolen this morning. At the airport," Stacia added impatiently. "The guard we reported it to said he would get in touch with us if there was any word."

  "We're not airport guards," the taller policeman said, his accent thick, but his English good. He pulled out his identification card and held it toward them. "We're with the special unit investigating the bombing."

  "Do you know who was responsible?" Stacia captured her bottom lip between her teeth. The horror of the airport explosion again filled her mind.

  "No terrorist group has come forward yet." The policeman's stern expression told them he was the one asking the questions.

  "What can we do for you?" Andrew asked. He opened the door wider and motioned the officers into the room.

  "We have a few questions." The tall officer moved to the couch and sat down, pulling the coffee table closer and placing his notebook on it. "We have reason to believe the intended target was one of our government's ministers. He was booked on your flight. Fortunately, his travel plans were altered." The officer flipped his notebook open to a clean page, and pulled out a pen. "We'd like a copy of your itinerary, addresses of where you'll be staying in Greece, and the purpose of your trip to our country."

  There was little written on Stacia's page when the officer had completed her statement. She didn't have a set plan, intending simply to drift after completing her courier job and find a sun-soaked island with plenty of ruins.

  Andrew's responses were no more revealing. "Will that be all?" he asked.

  "Unless you have anything else you want to tell us." When neither replied, the mustached officer asked, "Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?"

  Stacia shook her head. "That's what made it so unbelievable, that life could be so normal then explode without warning into horror."

  She added quietly. "We saw the stretchers. Did anyone—" She bit her lip. "-die?"

  "Two," the policeman said, his whiskers bristling. "So far," he added.

  Stacia drew in a shaky breath. Andrew's jaw tightened and his eyes seemed to lose focus as though he stared inward at something he couldn't bear to see.

  The officer spoke again. "Did you see anyone bring anything on board the aircraft that didn't seem to belong to them?"

  The heat spread across Stacia's cheeks. She had something that didn't belong to her. In her own suitcase lay a package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Wordlessly, she shook her head, no.

  "Did you bring anything into the country not belonging to you?" the policeman asked.

  "No," she lied again, praying her face wouldn't betray her. She'd been told what was in the package, but she didn't know. It had never occurred to her to look. Surely couriers transported packages all the time without actually seeing the contents of what they carried.

  The policeman watched her, his gaze narrowed.

  Stacia's throat tightened. She couldn't tell him now about the package. She'd read about smugglers and the hard line the courts took. Locked up for years in a foreign jail. She shuddered. If it turned out to be drugs, the police would never believe her innocence.

  "Well, officers," Andrew said, moving toward the door and opening it, "if there's nothing else?"

  Stacia's pulse raced faster. It was difficult to keep from glancing toward her suitcase.

  "That's all for the moment," the taller officer said, flipping his notebook shut, "but call if you think of anything else."

  Andrew moved between her and the policemen, blocking the rest of what the officer said. Then the men moved through into the hall and Andrew gently shut the
door behind them. He turned to her, his eyes hard and unrelenting.

  "You lied," he accused.

  "Let's get one thing straight." Stacia gritted her jaw. "You stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours."

  "As long as you're with me, your business is my business." He drew closer to her. "I have no intention of going to jail on your account."

  "Then you've got nothing to worry about."

  He examined her face for an instant more then released her gaze so abruptly she all but staggered. "I'm going out for a newspaper." He grabbed up a baseball cap from the bottom of his suitcase, and jammed it on his head. He closed the door quietly as he left, but the sound echoed in Stacia's head long after he was gone.

  She counted to twenty, then forty, wanting to be sure Andrew wouldn't come back when she least expected him. Then slowly, tentatively, she walked over to her suitcase and unclasped the latches. The package rested near the top, partially covered by her new silk blouse.

  Stacia took a deep breath and pulled the package out, pushing away her reluctance to open mail that wasn't hers. For a long moment, she stared at it, the name Andropolous blackly accusing. Finally, knowing she had to do it, she eased open the tape and pulled the contents from the wrapping paper.

  One sweater, black, soft and feminine, fell into her hands. On top of it was a sealed envelope, again with the name Andropolous in clear, black print.

  Exactly as Mr. Stone had said.

  Relief filled Stacia's heart. With trembling fingers, she carefully re-folded the sweater and placed it and the envelope back in the wrapping. She stuck the tape back around it and buried the package at the bottom of her suitcase.

  Minutes later, Andrew returned.

  "Any news on the bombing?" Stacia asked, closing the book she'd been attempting unsuccessfully to read.

  "Front page," Andrew replied tersely. "A third passenger died in the hospital. They're saying a right-wing terrorist group is responsible, but there's no confirmation."

  At least her package had nothing to do with the bombing. It contained exactly what she'd been told.

  Stacia jumped as a tap sounded at the door. She never used to be nervous, had gone to work each day at the library knowing she'd come home again in the evening. A change from order and calm was what she had desired from this trip, but she hadn't expected this.

  Andrew once again reached the door before she did. It was the hotel porter this time. Andrew took the proffered note, reached into his pocket and, from a seemingly unlimited supply of cash, handed the young man a tip.

  "Is it from the airport police?" Stacia asked anxiously. "Have they found my purse?"

  He slowly turned over the envelope and read the lettering on the front.

  Stacia fought the urge to snatch it from his hand.

  "It's for you," he finally said. With a thoughtful glance in her direction, he held it out.

  Stacia took the paper and turned away to read it.

  "Is it from your... friend?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  "He's not going to be able to meet me here today after all." She lowered her gaze, tried to hide her disappointment.

  "He?"

  "Does it matter?" she inquired coldly, meeting his gaze now.

  "You don't seem the type to meet a man in an expensive hotel half way around the world."

  He'd called her beautiful before and now she wasn't the type.

  "You don't know anything about me," she said.

  "True," he agreed, frowning.

  "So how can you possibly make that kind of assessment?"

  His lips curved into a half-smile. "I've got eyes."

  Stacia drew herself up to her full height. "What does that mean?"

  His gaze was assessing. "You're not dressed like an expensive toy."

  Nothing she owned was expensive. Unless you counted the book she'd bought on her twenty-first birthday, a leather bound edition of Kazantzakis' Zorba The Greek. If any man had made her want to visit Greece, it was the famous author—not some rich old fool existing only in the imagination of Andrew Moore.

  "Are you quite through?" she asked icily.

  "I meant it as a compliment." His expression softened as he stepped closer. "I told you before you were beautiful, and I meant it."

  She stepped backward.

  "When is your friend meeting you?"

  "He doesn't say." Her fingers formed a fist around the note in her hand, crushing its message away from Andrew's inquisitive eyes.

  "How well do you know this man?"

  "That's none of your business."

  "You've made it my business?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm hardly going to leave you alone in a strange country, with no money—"

  "I told you I would pay you back."

  "—and no passport." He glanced at the crumpled paper in her hand. "You might get into trouble and not be able to get out."

  "So I'm supposed to depend on you to keep me safe?"

  "You could do worse."

  "I know nothing about you, and according to you, strangers are synonymous with axe murderers."

  "Now you've got it." A crinkling around his eyes spread to a grin on his lips.

  She took another step backward, only stopping when the back of her knees bumped the edge of the bed.

  "If we're going to be room-mates," Andrew went on softly, "we'd better get to know each other."

  Stacia forgot to breathe.

  He smiled down at her, his eyes bluer than any man's had a right to be. "Can I take you to dinner?" he asked.

  * * *

  Now was the time to go. When he wouldn't hear her movements above the sound of his shower. Stacia shook her head, tried to force away the image of Andrew under the spray, the water hitting his hard body and dripping down its length.

  He hadn't left her alone all afternoon. They'd eyed each other warily, had taken turns making phone calls. Hers, to her bank, closed, as she had known it would be, and to her friend, Angela, gone for the weekend according to the cheery voice on the answering machine. It hardly mattered. Her friend had no money to send her anyway. She had called more from a desire to hear Angela's voice, in the hopes it would dispel the apprehension building within.

  His call was to the airport, checking with security as to whether her bag had been recovered. A rueful shake of his head told her the answer. Then another call, or two, with his back turned towards her, Andrew's shower water didn't stop. Was the open bathroom door a mistake or an invitation? Most likely, he'd left it open to keep her in view.

  Thank goodness, the carpet was thick. Her feet made no sound as she tiptoed across the room. She collected the tote bag Andrew had bought when he'd gone out for a paper, the tote bag now holding her parcel. Moving to the door, she pushed the handle down and pulled.

  It opened noiselessly. Well oiled. Well maintained. A luxury hotel down to the smallest detail. One last glance toward the bathroom and she was in the hall.

  She avoided the elevator and took the stairs. With Andrew liable to appear at any moment to stare over the balustrade, she didn't want to be trapped in the elevator cage, as visible as a roasting lamb on a spit. She shoved her hand into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled paper, re-reading its message beneath the light of the stairwell.

  Miss Roberts,

  Meet me at Greco Taverna, 7:00 p.m.

  Andropolous

  Apprehension flared. What was wrong with a well-lit hotel lobby? Mr. Stone had implied Andropolous was eccentric, but there were limits.

  Stacia pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs and emerged next to the front desk. A quick chat with the concierge, a winding line drawn on a multi-colored tourist map, and she was ready. She walked out the front door and into the night.

  Athens' streets were darker than those back home. If she'd had money, she'd have taken a taxi. But even without, she managed the first two blocks confidently. Tourists were everywhere, and she blended into the crowd. The n
ext two blocks were different. She stood out from the throng of locals. Her coloring was almost right, but her clothes, her bearing, everything else cried foreigner.

  As she paused in the doorway of a shop, a group of young men sauntered past. They preened themselves in the shop window and gestured widely to each other.

  Stacia stared at the goods displayed behind the window and tried not to feel nervous of the men still so close. It was a difficult task since the bombing this morning and the snatching of her purse by a thief.

  When the men continued on, she peeked into the street. Nobody was approaching but a pair of giggling girls, strolling side by side, arm in arm. How wonderful it would be if she could insert herself between them and walk to the taverna with a buffer on either side. The desk clerk had said the taverna was close, but it already seemed as though she'd been walking for miles.

  With a sigh, she consulted her map then stepped back onto the narrow sidewalk. A sharp left took her to a street winding steeply up a hill. The sign Greco Taverna swung just ahead, the stark white columns of the Parthenon depicted upon it. Not many people around now—almost more frightening than before.

  She glanced over her shoulder, but no one was there. She'd experienced the eeriest sensation since leaving the hotel that someone was following her. Was she becoming paranoid as well as nervous? The sooner she got rid of the package, the better.

  With a tightening of her lips, she opened the door to the taverna. It was darker inside than out. The only light came from candles stuck unceremoniously in the top of wine bottles and placed in the center of each table.

  As Stacia stared around the room, her dismay increased. It was so crowded. How on earth was she supposed to know which man was Andropolous? Most of the customers appeared to be locals. The few tourists stood out, recognizable from the camera bags propped at the foot of their chairs, the colorful shawls clinging to the shoulders of the women, and the pullover shirts covering the chests of the men. The windows of the craft shops were filled with such clothing.

  Of the Greek patrons, nothing much distinguished one man from the next—a fuller mustache, a black cap tilted back rather than forward, fierce black eyes and eyes that frankly appraised.