Lovers Never Lie (16 page)

"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.

"But there
are
diamonds," he added.
"My
diamonds."

Chapter 10

Diamonds.

The word conjured up images of engagement rings and tiaras. Stacia snatched the sweater from Andrew's hands and moved dazedly toward the window, holding the sweater up to what remained of the light.

The baubles didn't look like diamonds. Sparkly, yes, but no more so than a piece of costume jewelry. They couldn't be diamonds. If they were, that meant.... Her pulse hammered a staccato beat against her temple and her mouth grew as dry as the air outside. She thrust the sweater back at Andrew with shaking hands.

If these were diamonds,
she
had carried them into the country. Stacia drew the back of her hand across her wet brow. No, not carried them. Smuggled them. The room began to swim.

"Sit down," Andrew cried, and pushed her to the bed.

They were stolen goods. She had smuggled stolen goods into the country. She opened her mouth to protest that it wasn't so then closed it again without saying a word. Black dots formed a wavy line in front of her eyes.

"Stacia. Stacia."

A pinpoint of light appeared at the end of a long tunnel, then grew larger, more distinct. A tender voice drew her to it. Something cool pressed her forehead. With relief, she leaned into it.

"It's all right," Andrew said.

It was his arm holding her waist, keeping her from falling.

"Take a deep breath," he instructed, "and put your head between your knees."

She took a breath as Andrew had suggested, but her head still spun like a merry-go-round.

Andrew's eyes, when she could focus, were dark with concern.

"I didn't steal your diamonds," she whispered, hoping he'd believe her. Why should he? She hadn't believed him.

"I know," he said gently, placing a finger on her lips. "Don't talk. Just rest."

She wrenched her lips away. "How do you know?" she asked.

"You got them from Wilson."

"Stone. His name was Stone." Her head felt as though it were going to float away from her shoulders. To steady herself, she focused on his eyes.

"Wilson," he countered flatly. "My most
trusted
employee." Andrew's mouth twisted. "He managed my brokerage in Chicago. He was in charge of all the shipments to New York and London."

"Brokerage?"

"Moore's Diamond Brokerage. I buy, sell, and trade."

It was difficult to concentrate when the line of Andrew's jaw led to the sensual curve of his lips, reminding Stacia of how they'd felt kissing her mouth, making her sickeningly aware of the turn of events.

"How did you know Wilson gave the diamonds to me?" she asked.

"I was watching his house. I was sure he'd stolen the diamonds but didn't know where he was sending them." He took her hand in his. "I saw you pick them up."

"You were the man in the car," Stacia replied slowly. At last she understood. Memory served up a quick image of the street, the car, and the battered baseball cap. She should have known him by his hat.

"I couldn't believe you had anything to do with it. You looked so young—" He drew a circle around the inside of her palm, "—so vulnerable. I was sure you had some other reason to be there, but when you came out of Wilson's house, you were holding a package."

"You followed me." She could scarcely breathe.

"I told you that at the cove."

"It didn't make sense then." Her body was numb. All feeling had fled and might never return. "At the airport in Chicago, you knew who I was."

"Not who, exactly. I didn't know your name then."

"The airplane. Athens." As the list grew, the hurt grew with it. "The theft of my purse." She stared up at him, her cheeks hot. "Was that your idea?"

"No." A swift grin flashed on his lips. "That was an unexpected bit of luck."

"Luck!" She sprang to her feet.

"I needed to know how much you knew, how much you were involved. I needed to stay close to you." He stood also.

He'd suspected her, had thought she was a thief. Even when they'd shared a room. Even when he had kissed her.

"Why didn't you just take the diamonds?" Rage shook her so fiercely the pain of his duplicity dulled.

He touched her shoulder with a hand of a stranger.

"It wasn't
you
I wanted to turn over to the police," he said bitterly. "It was Wilson and that son-of-a-bitch at the other end."

She noticed across a barrier of sound and touch, the pulse steadily throbbing at the base of his throat and the exhausted shadow around his eyes. A vise squeezed her heart and she turned away.

"But it was
me
you followed," she protested, close to tears.
"Me
you befriended."

"You could lead me to the rest of the thieves."

"It was
me
you made love to." She choked on the words. "You used me. Manipulated me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You lied to me."

"I told you my name. I couldn't tell you anything else."

"You didn't trust me."

"Did you trust me?"

She swallowed hard, remembered her fear and suspicions.

"Besides—" He released her suddenly. "I had to keep you safe."

"Safe!" she repeated disgustedly.

"If you were innocent, you were in danger." He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. "But it doesn't matter anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"It's over."

"Nothing's
over.
I haven't delivered the package yet."

"And you're not going to."

"Yes, I am."

"I won't let you."

"You can't stop me."

His gaze held hers, his expression unfathomable.

"I have to," she insisted.

"Why?" He said it patiently.

"Because I'm not a criminal." She tried to breathe naturally, to stop this dreadful sucking in of air. "Because you're after the person I'm supposed to deliver this to. I have to help. I owe you."

"This isn't your fault. I don't want you at risk."

She turned away, but his gaze warmed her back, insinuating her space and weakening her resolve. She stepped toward the window, away from him and his power.

"I told you before," she said, her throat tight. "My safety is not your concern."

She heard his sharp intake of breath and heard him move. At any moment she expected his hand to touch her shoulder. Instead, a knock sounded.

Andrew got to the door first, and flung it open so hard it crashed against the wall. It was no porter this time holding a message, not even a shy-faced maid. The much wrinkled face of the hotel owner's mother-in-law stared in through the doorway, her raven eyes bright against her brown skin. The only color on the unrelieved black of her person was the pink of her cheeks. With claw-like fingers, she held out a note to Stacia.

* * *

The taverna wasn't fancy, but Andrew wasn't in the mood for fancy. He wanted a place they could pretend to be tourists, one small enough for him to watch Stacia's back.

"Act naturally," he said gruffly. "If they're watching, and they probably are, we don't want them to know we're on to them."

The black smudges that were Stacia's eyes widened, but she nodded in agreement.

"We'll go in, have dinner—" He smiled at her reassuringly and wished for the millionth time that they were just as they pretended, a man and a woman going out for the evening, "—perhaps dance a little."

"Is this necessary?" she asked.

"Yes," he said firmly. He had tried in the hotel room to make her understand, had told her that for some, diamonds were worth the killing. He thought of Nancy and his palms grew clammy. What had happened to his wife could not happen again.

He placed his hand on Stacia's back and steered her toward a corner table, her body rigid beneath his fingers. Backs to the wall. Safer that way. She might not be happy with what he'd decided, but that was too damned bad.

"I'm glad you've decided to be sensible," he said. It was him, not her, who would meet Andropolous tomorrow.