Lovers Never Lie (27 page)

Metal squealed on metal as Andrew pressed his foot to the brakes, but they still worked, still stopped the car a hair's breadth from crashing through the stone wall of the church in Stacia's postcard.

He peered past the graveyard, straining to find the roadway the girl in the cafe had mentioned. She'd been standing in the restaurant's open doorway when he drove up, her gaze on the road in front of her, her face contorted into a frown.

Her eyes had lit with recognition when he asked after Stacia. The American woman from the bus wasn't back yet, she had said, but had seemed relieved he was there, as though he had lifted a burden from her shoulders.

Andrew shifted the car into gear, and rolled slowly past the graveyard. It would be easier to drive if there were lights on this road, or, at the very least, if the moon would come out.

Despite the gloom, he spotted the turn to the left and started up the steep incline. He kept his eyes averted from the graveyard, not wanting to be reminded of death while thinking of Stacia.

A truck flew over the crest of the hill towards him. Its lights pierced the darkness as it bounced and bumped down the dirt road. Going too fast, Andrew thought, wrenching his steering wheel to the right. No call for such speed on a road such as this. Following some inner voice, Andrew pulled off into the trees, cutting his engine and dousing his headlights.

The truck roared past. In the front seat of the cab, three white, set faces stared straight ahead. Anger rolled up from Andrew's belly and exploded through his chest, heating him through, burning.

Maria Argolis was in that truck, as was Wilson and that stupid hulk from the beach. They were getting away.

With his diamonds. With Stacia.

The fury in his throat erupted into a growl then just as suddenly faded to a whisper. He hadn't seen Stacia in the truck. Unless she was in the back, perhaps she wasn't with them. His fever froze into a cold sweat on his brow. Had they killed her already?

Andrew twisted the car key and fired the engine to life. Then he yanked the steering wheel to the left, and began to follow the truck. At the very last moment, some other instinct intervened. He pulled the wheel to the right and spun his car up the road towards the Argolis house.

With arms turned numb, he maneuvered the vehicle up the steep path. He couldn't stop his mind from whirling, couldn't halt the sense of panic, of dread that he was too late to save Stacia.

Gravel skewed from beneath his tires as he braked too sharply in front of Maria's house. The girl in the cafe had said it was the only one along the cemetery road. He jerked open the car door and somehow his legs carried him to the front door. It was locked, and Stacia was nowhere to be seen.

Moving faster now, he started around the house. He stumbled in the darkness. Windows passed in a blur. The back door was unlocked, the kitchen unnaturally bright.

He shouted Stacia's name, wanting only to speak it in the soft whispers of a lover. He bellowed its syllables, longing only to caress.

A shout echoed through the hall like a rock down a well. Stacia froze, and ceased her effort to escape. An effort that had succeeded only in rubbing her wrists bloody. Hope flowed upward from some secret storage place in her heart then just as swiftly died. Maria and her gang must have come back, must have decided in the end to shoot her before blowing her to bits.

The shout sounded again. Without properly hearing his words or seeing his face, she knew it was Andrew.

"Andrew!" she shouted back, her voice threatening to fail. He pounded down the hallway toward the study, his footsteps faster than Maria's, heavier too. Stacia glanced at the time left on the clock and the gladness in her heart died.

"Get out, Andrew!" she screamed. "There's a bomb."

"Are you all right?" he shouted back, rattling the door knob.

Now that you're here
she longed to answer, but knew if he was to live, he had to leave.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded hoarsely.

"No," she croaked. "Just go, Andrew. There's no time."

"I'm not going without you." His voice was muffled as though his head were bent. A scratching sounded at the lock.

"Your diamonds—"

"Forget the diamonds."

"Maria's getting away."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. You said it did, because of Nancy." She struggled to hide the pain in her voice.

She heard a thump, as though he had flung his body against the door then heard the dull sound of a palm flattened over wood. She could imagine that same hand on her, his fingers rough and warm against her skin. Her belly tightened with longing, and her heart filled with despair.

"What about Nancy?" he demanded fiercely, ramming the door again. Its solid wood held.

Stacia stared at the clock and wished the bomb would explode. A quick death was preferable to hearing of Andrew's love for another woman, but she pressed her eyes shut, and gathered her courage.

"That's why you're here," she said softly.

"I'm here because of you." He kicked the door as he growled out the words.

He couldn't mean what he said. He had loved Nancy and she had loved him. Andrew's glance, the touch of his hand, the lilt of his laughter, his strength—all were irresistible.

Metal rasped against the lock. Andrew swore.

Stacia opened her eyes and focused them on the door, on the solid panel of wood separating him from her. She longed to press her fingers against his forehead, caress away the lines she was sure were forming there, convince him somehow that everything was going to be all right.

Her gaze jerked to the clock with its swiftly fleeing seconds and her breath deserted her lungs.

"Go, Andrew," she urged him again. "There isn't enough time to get me out. Find Nancy's killers."

The scraping grew louder, more determined.

Her heart seemed to be beating in time with the seconds. Tick tock, tick tock.

Go Andrew. Leave Andrew. Be safe, my love.

With a final scraping sound, the door swung wide. Andrew's face was as white as his hair was black. She had never seen him look so fierce, or so determined. Not in the deserted fortress, or on the cliff.... She snatched her gaze from his and glanced at the clock.

Two minutes. Not enough time. Not when she had every feature to memorize, every nuance of expression to know. It would take a life time for that. A life time she didn't have, and he couldn't give her.

"Go, Andrew," she whispered, desperation sapping her voice. "There's no time."

He raced to the desk.

"Don't touch it," she cried. "It'll explode if you try to change anything once it's been activated."

He altered his direction in mid-stride, and dropped to his knees beside her, throwing down the jack knife he'd used to pick the lock. For a few seconds he struggled with the knots at her ankles, thinking, no doubt, they'd be faster to untie than to cut.

With her hands tied behind her back, she couldn't touch him as she'd like, but she could smell the night air in his hair, and the musky odor of masculine sweat. She parted her lips to say the words that would send him to safety, but he glanced into her eyes and the words died in her throat.

Suddenly, unbelievably, her feet were free. Andrew moved behind her to work on her hands. A fierce longing to live swelled up within her, along with other longings his eyes had awakened. She had dreams she hadn't dared to dream, desires she hadn't dared admit. Pressing back the images, she forced her gaze to the clock.

One and a half minutes. No time to know anything, or say anything, either, to speak the words of love she longed for him to hear. The sound of a vehicle broke through her fear.

"They're back," she cried hoarsely. She struggled to keep her hands from twisting in their bindings, knew that any movement would simply make the ropes tighter.

With an oath, Andrew reached for his jack knife. The sharp touch of metal tore at Stacia's skin, but in the space of a heartbeat, her bindings were gone. Andrew grabbed her hand, his fingers pressing tight over the cut on her wrist.

"Let's go," he said, glancing at the clock, turning white at the paucity of seconds remaining.

He pushed through the doorway with her, shielding her with his body. Then the front door burst open and the enemy stormed through.

"Stop," Maria shrieked, raising her gun.

Stacia didn't need the pressure of Andrew's hand on her waist to race toward the kitchen. She expected as she ran to hear the sharp report of the pistol, to feel the searing pain of the bullet.

CRACK!

The wood splintered next to Stacia's ear. She dove through the doorway, Andrew close behind. She was vaguely aware of the kitchen door swinging shut, of Maria's muffled curses and the sound of pounding feet. Andrew jerked open the back door and Stacia stumbled through ahead of him, one instant in a race for the trees, the next, flying through the air as the house exploded.

* * *

For a long moment, Stacia was conscious only of light, of a light within a light shining on her face.

Something heavy lay along her back. Andrew's heaviness. His body was so still on top of her, she couldn't tell if he lived.

The light came again. "All right, Miss?" a man asked.

She blinked against the glare of the flashlight probing her face, didn't speak because her tongue had thickened and was now glued to the top of her mouth. She managed to nod and the light left her eyes. At the same moment, Andrew stirred.

"Stacia," he said desperately, "are you all right?"

"Yes," she whispered. The dread in her soul disappeared. Relief he was alive made her heart sing.

He touched her cheek, and sighed. Then he nuzzled her neck, warming her with his breath.

"Mister?" spoke the disembodied voice holding the flashlight. "Are you all right?"

Andrew's muscles tightened against Stacia's back, then relaxed again as if he'd only just realized the man wasn't Maria, or Wilson, or Maria's helper. With a grunt, he rolled off Stacia and rose to his knees, took her hand in his and helped her sit up.

She stared past him to the house, feeling as if she floated above the ground, taking note of her reactions, but not allowing herself to feel.

"Don't look," Andrew said, pulling her close. But nothing could obliterate the desolation before her.

Andrew's heart pounded beneath her cheek. She reached for its rhythm and strength, and lay against him for a long moment. Then at last she pulled away and faced the shattered inferno that had been Maria's house.

Villagers, no doubt drawn by the explosion, had encircled the burning house as they would a Halloween bonfire. Their faces were solemn in the crackling night air.

"Maria, Wilson... they all must be dead," Stacia said numbly.

"Yes," Andrew replied. He put his arm around her shoulders, as though to lock in what warmth remained.

"Killed by their own bomb," she added. It had been as deadly this time as it had been the last. Three dead for three dead, but that didn't make it fair.

"Yes," Andrew said again.

"But you're safe," she said, the gladness welling in her chest. She looked at him now and a tiny portion of heat returned to her body. She touched his face, touched his hair, felt she could never touch him enough. For no amount of touching would release the pain from her heart.

"We both are," he replied, and gripped her shoulders tightly, as though he was afraid she would disappear again.

"Safe." She smiled shakily. "I thought I hated that word."

"And now?"

"I'm not so sure."

"I'll make you sure." Fiercely, he captured her lips with his.

"Home," she murmured, when at last he released her. His arms felt like home, a place where all the pain and sadness in the world could never touch her.

"Not such a bad thing." He stared straight into her eyes.

"No," Stacia agreed. With Andrew it would be wonderful. Then his lips met hers and her thoughts dissolved in a blaze of sensations.

"I love you," he said, when he finally drew away. His eyes looked blacker than the sky above, but there was a light in them she'd hadn't seen before. It seemed to flicker for her alone.

Everything grew still. Her blood stopped in her veins, and her heart ceased to beat. She was vaguely aware of the fire crackling behind her, of people walking to and fro, casting long shadows from the brightness of the flames. But every fiber of Stacia's being was concentrated on Andrew and the words he had just spoken, the most terrifying, wonderful words on earth.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice like his body, strong, firm and sure. He smiled into her eyes, and his soul touched hers. "Free to love you at last."

"Free?"

His face grew solemn. "Nancy died because of my business. I couldn't fix that or change it. But I had to make sure it would never happen again."

It would have, if not for him.

"Nancy wouldn't want you to feel guilty," Stacia said gently.