Lovers Never Lie (21 page)

"Wasn't easy," he said. "Must have trusted me, I guess." He shot her a shaky grin. "Money helped."

"How far is your boat? Can you make it?"

"Yes," he said.

Admiration swelled within her. He would do what needed doing by sheer guts and obstinacy. "I'll help you," she said, praying he would let her, praying, too, that she was strong enough to hold his weight. She released his hand and moved to his side, ducked in under his arm and stood tall to support him.

He made a sound as if to protest, then a smile flickered across his lips and he gave her shoulder an assenting squeeze.

Warmed, Stacia led the way along the cliff to the trail she had climbed before. It seemed so long ago now, yet every rock and blade of grass, every inch of the path was embedded in her mind. She glanced down and shuddered, knowing the descent would be worse than climbing up.

Andrew leaned heavily on her. If she slipped on a patch of gravel, they would both fall. Jack and Jill tumbling down the hill....

Andrew's color had worsened and his lips were pinched white at the corners. Despite the bandage she had applied, he was bleeding profusely, and as his blood drained, so would his strength. It was excruciating to listen to the shallow rasping of air from between his lips.

She stared again at the path, and caught her lower lip between her teeth. It was easier to look down than to see the pain on Andrew's face. As though connected to him by an invisible cord, every stabbing agony he endured transmitted itself to her.

She took a firmer grip on his waist and concentrated on the ground immediately beneath her feet. She tried to ignore the slithery twists of the path beyond.

The sun was higher now, and hotter, as it reflected off the sea and shafted blindingly upward. Her body soon dripped with sweat, the drops running down her skin in dusty rivers. Andrew's skin was dry, as though a fever burned through him, sucking away his fluids.

He needed a doctor, and soon.

She risked another glance at the trail. They were about half way. Five minutes more and they'd be at the bottom. Andrew's boat was beached on the gravel shoreline. She had only to push it into the water, climb in, start the engine, and aim it in the right direction. All things being equal, she'd have no problems at all.

Yet for all the sweat flooding her skin, the inside of Stacia's mouth was dry with worry. A sense of urgency claimed her. She tightened her sweat-slick fingers around Andrew's waist and stepped resolutely over a fissure in the path.

"We're almost at the bottom," she said encouragingly, not liking to see the blood ooze from between his fingers as he held his hand over his wound.

"Good," was all he said.

Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. Suddenly, they were there. The stones on the beach crunched beneath their feet.

From the top of the cliff, the boat had seemed the easy part. Stacia stared at it now with dismay. She'd been in a motor boat once with her father, both of them encased in over-large life jackets. She remembered her father pulling the starter cord, and only a sputter had emerged from the engine.

Andrew dragged his arm from her shoulder and before she guessed what he intended, tried to shift the boat further into the water.

"Stop!" she shouted, grabbing him by the arm. She slipped between him and the skiff. "I'll do it," she said, glaring at him.

"You're not strong enough." His face was grim.

She ignored him, grabbed hold of the bow, and heaved on it mightily, but the boat didn't budge. The gravel crunched behind her.

"You will not touch this boat," she ordered Andrew, refusing to even look at him, concentrating instead on the task at hand. She strained harder and managed to rock the boat until it's stern floated higher in the water. Amazingly, when she tilted it back again, the rest of the craft slipped like a fish into the sea. Stacia pulled it around so its stern was to the beach.

"Well done," Andrew said.

Stacia's cheeks filled with heat. She held the boat steady, while he half-climbed and half-fell into its hollow middle, then he crawled toward the bow, his face white and strained.

Stacia gave the skiff a push and stepped into the water after it. The cool liquid lapped at her ankles first then went up over her knees, feeling wonderful after the heat and dirt of the cliff climb.

She scrambled over the boat's side, and crouched low to balance, as she'd seen her father do that summer so long ago. The boat's keel scraped bottom.

"Push off with an oar," Andrew suggested. He sat slumped against the craft's aluminum side, his legs stretched between her feet.

There were two oars in the bottom of the boat. Stacia tugged one out, found it heavy and unwieldy. Cautiously, she stood and thrust it into the water, pushing off against the bottom as she would with a pole. The boat slid away from the shore and Stacia plopped down hard onto the metal seat.

Andrew closed his eyes, but whether to keep off the glare of the sun or to conceal his pain, Stacia wasn't sure. She swiftly dropped the engine into position then searched desperately for the knob the marina attendant had shown her father.

There. She found it. She pulled out the choke and caught the starter cord between two fingers, murmured a swift prayer, and tugged as hard as she could. The engine caught with an ear-shattering roar. She slowly pushed in the choke, and the roar gentled.

Chapter 13

Stacia laid her hand on Andrew's knee, and was comforted by even that brief contact. She kept her gaze on his face, not wanting to watch as the doctor swabbed away the blood from the place the bullet had hit.

Andrew was looking like Ulysses again, an injured warrior lying on his shield. But Andrew was real, a flesh and blood hero who was all her own.

"You were lucky," the doctor said to him, as he straightened and reached for a jar of antibiotic powder. "Falling over a cliff could have killed you, but landing on a sharp stick..." The elderly doctor clucked his tongue.

Andrew had insisted they lie, guessing rightly that the bullet had only grazed his shoulder and passed on by without lodging in it. He said the Greek police were jumpy enough since the airport explosion. If they told the truth about stolen diamonds and villains with guns, they might both end up in jail in place of Maria Argolis. Stacia hated the lying, but knew they had no choice.

"Will he be all right?" she asked, watching as the doctor shook antibiotic powder into Andrew's wound then covered it with a bandage.

"A good night's sleep and no exertion for a few days and he should be fine," the doctor cheerfully reassured her. He taped down the last end of snowy cotton, gave Andrew his hand and pulled him to a sitting position. "He'll be uncomfortable though. Come in tomorrow and I'll change the dressing. We don't want any infection."

* * *

Stacia stared down at Andrew, worry twisting her belly. His face was flushed and sweat beaded his brow. Was his wound infected or had she simply piled on too many blankets?

His eyelids flickered open. "Stop frowning," he said, "and come lie next to me."

She took hold of his hand and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. "You need sleep," she said firmly. He'd been restless since returning from the doctor's office, despite the pain killer the doctor had prescribed.

"I need
you,"
he insisted. He took his hand from hers and ran his fingers up her arm.

Stacia's pulse began to race. She needed him too. A chilling thought swept through her, killing the desire. Andrew could have died. So could she.

He tugged on her arm and lifted the corner of his blanket, motioning to the place beside him.

She remained where she was on the edge of the bed. "You have to sleep," she said sternly.

"I will," he promised solemnly.

Stacia drew her bare feet up onto the bed and slipped beneath the covers. She felt shy, all at once, of his nearness and heat and of choices made in the cold light of day.

"I want to hold you," Andrew whispered. "Crawl over to my other side."

She swung her leg over carefully, not wanting to touch anywhere near his wound. Her breath caught when his manhood pressed against her, but she rolled swiftly to his other side. No matter how much she wanted to make love with Andrew, they couldn't do it now, not with him hurt.

She could tell by the rapid rise and fall at the base of his temple that Andrew's pulse raced as swiftly as her own. His breathing had quickened also, matching hers then speeding past. He rolled onto his uninjured side and faced her, his wound high and uncrushed.

"You have to sleep," she said again, trying to say the words as though she meant them, and trying not to want him so.

"I am sleeping," he said, nuzzling her ear. "And I'm having the nicest dream."

"I'll leave unless you behave. I'm not going to be responsible for your injury getting worse."

His lips twitched. "I'll be good." He adjusted his features to those of an angel. "But can you?"

He was a devil, not an angel.

She turned away and put her back to him, but her awareness of his body stretching against her didn't abate. Her bones felt soft and her nerve endings alert, her will to resist non-existent. A single gesture and she would turn to him without question.

"Good night," he whispered, holding her close.

She longed to turn and kiss him, but didn't dare start what they couldn't finish. Instead she forced her eyes shut and took a deep cleansing breath. If she could still her mind, could erase the magic of their previous lovemaking, then perhaps she could sleep.

His breathing was soft, its rhythm soporific. Finally, at last,
her
breathing slowed, then her muscles unclenched, and a languorous calm beguiled her toward sleep.

* * *

Warm skin, slow hands, hard body pressing hers.

With a sigh, Stacia buried her nose into her pillow, trying to keep hold of the pleasure-filled dream.

Firm lips tracing a path across her shoulders...

Her eyelids snapped open, and awareness flooded over her as clearly as the morning sun shafted the bed. "Andrew," she said softly.

"Stacia," he murmured back, nibbling her ear.

"You'll hurt—"

"Shhh." He kissed her neck. "I'm fine."

"How can you be fine?" His lips felt fine.

"All better."

"You're not—"

"All better might be an exaggeration, but feeling damned good." He stroked the bare skin below her panties.

"The doctor—"

"—said rest." He urged her over on to her back. "But I've done enough of that."

"But—"

"No buts." He captured her lips with his, and kissed her so thoroughly she was left breathless. "I've been waiting all night to make love to you."

Andrew gathered her into his arms and rolled on to his back, pulling Stacia on top. It was as though a banked fire had sprung to life, the instant heat intoxicating. She captured him with every sense; her taste tingling on his tongue and her hair falling about his face, engulfing him in the perfume of flowers. The pain in his shoulder dulled in the exhilaration of her presence.

Her body melted into his and heat built within heat. He explored the hills and valleys of her curves, breathed in her scent and drowned in her essence.

This was no apparition haunting him with her memory, but a flesh and blood woman, alive and safe in his arms.

He hadn't failed her as he had failed his wife Nancy.

Slowly, cherishingly, he ran his hands up her back. Her skin was warm and pliant beneath his fingers. She buried her face into his neck and kissed him, every spot her lips touched becoming electric with desire.

He delighted in the satiny softness of her skin and her delicate beauty. Cupping her face in his hands, Andrew was struck to the heart by her vulnerability and strength. He wanted to explore every part of her body, to know her so intimately they would be as one.

His thumb ran along her jaw, then upward over her cheekbones, brushing back her hair, its weight shimmering against his fingers. The early morning sun splashed their bed, catching her fully on the face. Trust shone from her eyes and tugged at his heart, before her lashes lowered and concealed all expression.