Lovers Never Lie (6 page)

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.

"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.