Lovers Never Lie (4 page)

He frowned and she felt a sudden surge of power. She could do whatever she wanted with no one to answer to, could drift with the wind or fly with the birds.

"You'll want to be careful."

"Careful!"

"A woman traveling alone is a perfect target."

"For what?"

His slow gaze seemed to take in every inch of her. A wave of heat began in the pit of her stomach and swept outward until it blazed her skin. She'd seen men look at other women like that, but never at
her.

"For
that,"
he said forcibly. "In the Mediterranean, the men will take one look at you then pounce."

"I can take care of myself." She ignored the flames fanning her cheeks and brought her glass to her lips. This time the bourbon went down more easily, although it did nothing to quench the fire within.

"I wouldn't count on it," Moore replied, too fast, too smooth.

Anger boiled up, overwhelming that other heat he had aroused. "Look Mr....
Moore,
I don't need you to tell me what to watch out for." She sucked in a shaky breath. "The most dangerous man I'm likely to meet in Greece is
you!"

His eyes grew distant. "You might be right, Miss Roberts."

* * *

Stacia scrunched her eyes more tightly shut, but she couldn't avoid the morning light hitting her squarely in the face. She must have slept after all. A weight pressed against her, a warm weight... nice. The smooth-rough texture of skin brushed her hand. Someone else's skin.

She snapped her eyes open. Andrew Moore was leaning across her, his face just inches from her own.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, her body stiffening. His eyes weren't simply blue. There was grey in them, also, and they shifted and changed with the light, from slate to almost black.

He smiled at her, a casual, sexy sort of grin. But she couldn't smile back. Not with his lips this close, lips she suddenly felt like kissing.

His gaze flickered to her mouth, and the black in his eyes suddenly dominated.

"Just fastening your seat belt," he explained. "I didn't want to wake you."

"I can do it myself." She lifted his hand away from her side. His skin was warm and smooth, although there was a roughness there, also, as though he knew about hard work. An exhilarating hand to hold. With a sharp intake of breath, she dropped it.

He pulled away from her slowly. The disappearance of his warmth left her strangely bereft. But she was able to breathe again now that he no longer touched her. She searched for the end of her seat belt buried somewhere between them, and clicked it shut.

The plane dipped.

"We're almost there," Andrew murmured.

Stacia ran her hand through her hair. She must look a mess. Andrew had not only combed his hair, but had shaved and put on aftershave. The scent of it tickled her nose and sent a tingle spiraling through her chest. She swallowed hard, and turned to the window. The yellow warmth shafting through had transformed into a blanket. Through the glass, she could see the aircraft already making its approach to the runway.

"Where are you staying in Athens?" Andrew asked.

"With friends," Stacia lied. Frowning, she reached beneath her seat and brought her purse to her lap. She unclasped it and slipped her fingers inside.

The envelope containing her hotel reservations and money was still tucked between her passport and wallet. The paper crackled as her fingers closed around it.

She wanted to believe he had asked the question from mere politeness, as one traveler to another, but she'd been unable to shake the nagging suspicion of the night before, that Andrew Moore could be Andropolous's younger son.

"Let's get together for a drink in Athens," he suggested.

Startled, Stacia released the envelope back into her purse. "Perhaps," she said evasively.

"If you give me your friend's phone number—"

"The number is in my suitcase. When we get off the plane maybe I can dig it out."

He frowned. "What about the rest of your trip? Does your travel agent have you well organized?"

"As much as I need to be." Hotel reservations, tickets, and a thick wad of Greek drachmas were in that envelope, but they weren't from any travel agent, and they weren't for Andrew to see.

The plane rocked as it hit the runway. Stacia dropped her purse onto her lap and took hold of the arm rests.

"It's all right," Andrew said softly, seeming to know she feared the landing. He covered her hand with his.

She pulled her hand away.

"Travel rule number two," he added. "Never let
anyone
see you're afraid."

"Who's afraid," she said fiercely, forcing herself to loosen her grip.

"Present company excluded, of course."

"I don't intend to trust anyone."

"Good," he said.

Unexpectedly, his approval warmed her.

When the plane rolled to a stop, he snapped open his seat belt. Standing, he pulled down both their bags from the overhead compartment.

Stacia stood, also, her legs stiff from disuse. She took her bag from Andrew's outstretched hand and stepped into the aisle before him.

Goodbye, she had intended to say upon landing, and have a good trip. But suddenly, now that the moment had come, she wished they were still in the air.

Passengers surged behind them, jamming Andrew up against her. His body was hard beneath his loose-fitting clothes, and incredibly warm. She fit against him perfectly, the top of her head coming just beneath his chin.

Comfortable. She shifted her body forward. Comfortable was not what she wanted; independence was what she craved.

The passengers shuffled forward like prisoners in a chain gang. Stacia returned the flight attendant's parting smile, unclenched her stiff fingers and stepped off the plane.

It was warmer than Chicago. Perhaps the air-conditioning was off in the terminal building. She glanced around. There might not be any air-conditioning.

The signs on the wall were indecipherable. Different alphabet, different sounds. No hope of figuring it out. But the uncertainty was exciting, even if a little unnerving. Better not let Andrew see she was nervous. He had an irritating tendency to want to help.

She would follow the crowd. They seemed to know where they were going. There! Something in English. Money changer. Might have guessed.

Andrew's aftershave still assailed her senses. Stacia tried to breathe more shallowly. She stared past the barriers to the waiting crowds, and her excitement grew.

This place was nothing like home. The people themselves didn't look much different, although their clothes were distinctively Greek, with the black shawls around the old women's shoulders and the fisherman caps on the grizzled grey heads of the men. It was more an atmosphere, an ambiance, an air of promise.

"Need any money changed?" Andrew asked, his breath warm against her ear.

"No thanks." The envelope in her purse held plenty of money, both Greek and American.

The line suddenly moved faster. The luggage carousel was just ahead, with her suitcase perched on top of the chute ready to hurtle down. Stacia prayed it wouldn't open again, could envision too clearly her underwear circling round and round on top of other people's baggage. When her suitcase had successfully navigated the drop, she let out her breath slowly.

"Got anything to hide?"

She whirled around and found Andrew's blue gaze fixed intently on her face.

"Greek customs' officials are amongst the toughest in the world," he added.

She frowned, didn't answer, and moved away through the crowd to retrieve her bag. She heaved it off the carousel then looked for Andrew again. Couldn't see him.

Seemed impossible he'd been faster than her, but if she didn't see him again, it would save any need for final words. His disappearance felt funny though, made the trip feel unfinished. Especially as he'd suggested they get together in Athens. It was disconcerting how disappointed she felt that they wouldn't.

A man lunged for his bag as it swept around the carousel away from him. Stacia shifted sideways, made her way out of the path of those still collecting their luggage, and headed with other passengers towards the customs' desk.

Once through customs, she would hit the tourist bureau. No, the hotel first, where she would find Mr. Andropolous's son and get rid of the package.

A large woman with damp patches under her arms suddenly blocked Stacia's way. They both danced crazily in an effort to get around each other. The large woman smiled and gestured to her right, then glanced over Stacia's shoulder and her eyes widened.

There was no time to turn, no time to think. A flash of light, a sudden roar, and Stacia's world burst apart.

Chapter 3

The blast swept Stacia off her feet and flung her like a rag doll sideways into the crowd. The large woman flew with her, their limbs entwined in a tangled web of soft flesh and hard bones. With a painful thump, they landed together on the ground.

The air fled Stacia's lungs. The suffocating smell of acrid smoke filled the space left behind.

Madness erupted. Muted confusion became screams of terror. Moans and piteous crying swelled to the high-pitched keening of the wounded.

Andrew. His image wobbled in and out of Stacia's consciousness, piercing the fog surrounding her brain. She lifted her head, and a pain unconnected to broken bones or punctured skin penetrated her soul.

She couldn't bear for it to happen, for death to strike her life again so soon. She didn't love Andrew as she had loved her father, barely knew him in fact, but she wouldn't
allow
him to be dead.

He had to have been behind her, somewhere closer to the blast. She struggled to rise, but something heavy lay across her shoulders. She curled her fingers into fists and pushed her upper body from the ground. The person on top groaned, and flopped to one side.

Other passengers raised their heads, and gazed around, also, their hands reaching for the reassuring presence of loved ones. She couldn't see Andrew. Stacia sucked in a breath and struggled to beat back her fear.

Other people slowly stood and clutched at family members, picked up their suitcases, and swiftly moved away. It was as though another bomb, if that's what the explosion had been, was about to blow them up at any moment.

Stacia got to her feet and glanced toward the luggage carousel. It was a twisted mass of jagged metal, covered in and surrounded by scraps of fluttering material. Suitcases full of clothes had been flung high by the blast and lay scattered like broken matchsticks, their contents exposed. Stacia forced her way toward the carousel, fighting against an ever-increasing tide of panic-stricken passengers going in the opposite direction.

"Andrew," she called, her cry a croaked whisper.

Alarms went off, some loud and strident, others with the mind-numbing syncopation of police sirens.

Uniformed officials, their faces white and strained, pushed their way through the crowd. They commanded in loud voices that those passengers who were able should move to the left side of the customs' lounge quickly and quietly.

"Andrew!" Stacia shouted again, louder this time.

"Stacia!"

She heard him call her name before his hand touched her shoulder. She swung around to face him, found his eyes two bottomless wells of blue, and his arms a haven. With a muffled cry, she fell into his embrace and wrapped herself in his comforting warmth.

She stood against him trembling, stunned by the enormity of her relief. He clung to her as tightly, the heat from his body penetrating the chill encasing her own. Vaguely, she became aware of the official again, who was urging them both to move.

Embarrassed, she pulled herself away from Andrew's arms. "I thought you'd been killed," she mumbled.

"I'm glad you care," he said softly.

"Of course, I care." She didn't look at him, stared instead at the chaos surrounding them.

"Come on," he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Let's get out of here."