Lovers Never Lie (7 page)

"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 next 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.

It was impossible. Unless Andropolous approached her, she would never find him.

Suddenly a man at the back of the room, Greek, from the looks of him, scraped his chair away from the table. Black hair touched with grey gleamed from beneath his cap and his pants were tight, revealing muscular thighs and a fit man's stance.

The man wended his way purposefully towards her, squeezing between the crowded tables. Instinctively, Stacia clutched her bag more tightly.

Cool night air hit her bare legs as the door behind her opened. Without warning, strong fingers caught her arm. She whirled around.

Andrew.

His gaze locked with hers, his blue eyes turning black in the dim light.

Stacia jerked free and again faced the Greek man. He was closer now, but no longer looking at her. He stared past her, toward Andrew then suddenly pushed the chair nearest him out of the way, nearly knocking an elderly man to the floor in the process. Twisting and turning, he elbowed through the diners, moving away from both her and Andrew.

Stacia sank into an empty chair as Andrew pushed his way past her. His muffled oath sounded harsh in her ear. Andrew swept through the taverna in pursuit of the stranger, while she looked on in disbelief.

The man raced past the bar towards the kitchen, sparing one swift glance over his shoulder at the bag in Stacia's arms. With a scowl, he shoved a chair into Andrew's path then disappeared into the kitchen amid the excited clamor of the cook.

Andrew flung the chair aside and proceeded after him. Metal clattered, men yelled, and doors slammed, until, at last, there was nothing left but silence.

Stacia slowly let out her breath. From the lack of sound in the small room, she was not the only one who'd been holding it. Then, in a flood, everyone began talking at once. A few men stood, as though intending to join the chase, but at the exhortations of their friends, sank back into their chairs.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

Dry, cool fingers patted Stacia's hand. She tore her gaze from the spot Andrew and the man had disappeared, and looked across the table. Mild blue eyes set in a berry brown face stared back at her.

"Here, have my tea... I haven't poured it yet." The woman's voice was as comforting as the lilac perfume she wore.

Stacia's grandmother had worn lilac perfume. The scent had soothed Stacia when she was young, and it soothed her now. She nodded her assent and the elderly woman opposite poured the tea into a cup. She spooned in four teaspoons of sugar, far too many to be palatable.

"Sugar for shock," the older woman said firmly. She pushed the cup toward Stacia. "My name is Mary Argyle." She held out her hand. "You may call me Mary. And you are?"

"Stacia Roberts." It seemed unreal to be exchanging names when Andrew was out in the night chasing heaven knew who—or why.

"Very pleased to meet you, my dear," Mary replied primly. "Now tell me. What on earth was that all about?"

"I'm not sure," Stacia said uncertainly.

"Your young man certainly seemed angry."

"He's
not
my young man."

"Oh?" Mary Argyle's slightly opaque eyes turned shrewd.

"I... I barely know him," Stacia stammered.
She didn't know him at all.

Mary's grey eyebrows rose. "He seems to know you. He defended you rather gallantly."

Stacia grimaced. "Defended me from what?"

"Why, from that other young man, of course."

"I've never seen
him
before at all."

"Quite dreadful manners," Mary went on, "making such a fuss in a public place. This taverna came highly recommended, too!"

Stacia relaxed into her chair. The woman opposite was so normal, so reassuring, and her indignation transformed the scene from the frightening to the merely absurd. If it weren't for expecting Andrew to re-emerge as suddenly as he had disappeared, Stacia could almost pretend the chase had never taken place at all. Unexpectedly, she longed to see him.

Mary cocked her head sideways in a manner resembling a grey sparrow. "Your young man must know him," she insisted, calmly voicing the thought Stacia hadn't wanted to acknowledge.

If the man was Andropolous's son and Andrew knew him... what then? She gulped down a mouthful of the hot tea, trying to get warm, trying not to imagine the worse.

"You're still here. Good."

Stacia jerked around. Andrew stood behind her, his eyes cold and his jaw set.

"He got away," he went on, breathing between the words in short, hungry gasps, as though he'd been running the entire time he'd been gone. "It's as black as Hades out there."

"Why did you chase him?" Stacia asked.

"Why did he run?"

Her chest tightened. "Do you know him?" she demanded hoarsely.
Are you his younger brother?

Andrew stared at her intently, not allowing her gaze to slip from his, not allowing her a crumb of comfort.

"No," he finally answered.

"Then why?"

"He had a knife—"

"I didn't see a knife."

"—and he looked as though he meant to use it." A muscle twitched above his right eye. "I was protecting you, trying to keep you safe!"

Stacia's cheeks flared hot. "You're not my keeper."

"Someone has to do it."

"Not
you."
She wrapped her arms around her body. "Not
anyone."

"Was he your friend?" he asked, ignoring her words.

"No!" she exclaimed. Though he might have been the man she was there to meet. Either him or the younger of Andropolous's sons. But if he was the younger son that meant Andrew wasn't. She shook her head, tried to away clear her confusion. "Why did he run when he saw you?" Would Andrew tell her the truth?

"That's what I'm asking
you!"

"Sit down, both of you, and have some tea." Mary Argyle's voice was soothing, unruffled.

Stacia had forgotten for a moment the older woman was there.

"We can't stay," Andrew said. "We have dinner reservations."

"We don't—"

His gaze bore into Stacia's. "This afternoon, you agreed to have dinner with me."