Lovers Never Lie (14 page)

"Let me help," he offered quietly, as though he hadn't spoken earlier, as though his question no longer reverberated in her ears.

"I can do it," she said sharply.

His hand dropped away.

Irrationally, that loss was harder to bear than his touch.

She slipped her arms through her blouse, buttoned it and faced him. His shorts were already on, but his chest was still bare. With sandals and a lance, he could be Jason arriving on Crete for the Golden Fleece. He seemed the personification of good standing before her, not of evil.

She cleared her throat, prayed the words she needed would come. "You haven't answered my question." She lifted her chin higher.

"You've got something of mine in that package," he said, his voice hard.

Everything about him was now hard, except for the hair curling softly around his face. Yet he stared at her as though memorizing her features.

"I was warned about you," she said.

"You know about me?" Something painful flickered across his face. "Warned I would want my property back?"

"I was warned you might try to steal it." If she said the words aloud, it might make it all seem real. She backed away one step toward the stairs.

"Me steal it?" he asked incredulously. He took a step toward her, his gaze fastened on hers. "They don't call it stealing when you take back what's yours."

His gaze pinned her to the rock. She was unable to move backward, didn't want to move forward.

"Who are you?" she whispered. She needed to hear the truth, knew suddenly it was the only way to make the pain end.

"I told you who I am."

"You gave me a name. That doesn't mean you told me the truth."

"Why don't
you
tell
me
the truth?" His eyes were bullets, hard as metal and steely blue. "What's in the package Stacia?" He gripped her wrist. "Do you know?"

"Yes," she breathed, bracing herself, though for what she didn't know. The completeness of their isolation, so desirable before, seemed suddenly menacing. She caught her breath and held it. He would hardly attack her. He knew she didn't have the package with her.

A sound as soft as a sigh escaped his lips. "You're part of it, aren't you?" His fingers became an iron band around her wrist, and his eyes grew darker, though with pain or elation, she wasn't sure which. And there were lines around his lips that hadn't been there before.

"Part of what?" she asked.

"The conspiracy," he answered, in a leaden voice. "You knew what was in the package, yet you agreed to carry it to Greece."

"Yes."

He released her wrist and gripped her chin instead, tilting it upward, his eyes searching hers. Her soul too, for all she knew. Heat scored her cheeks where his fingers lay, reviving past unwanted heat.

"I didn't want to believe you knew," he said in a contemptuous voice.

She wrenched her head away. Somehow his contempt hurt more than the knowledge he wasn't who he pretended to be.

"I'd begun to believe you were incapable of such a thing."

"I'd do it again in an instant." Anger added an edge to her words.

"You'll never do it again to
me."

The steely certainty in his voice made her want to lash out at him. "We're
lovers
now. You said so." She heard the bitterness in her voice and struggled to keep her feelings from her face. She had given him too much already.

"Lovers never lie," she added softly. "I know you're not Andrew Moore. At least, that's not your father's name." The words tumbled from her mouth, but if she didn't speak them quickly, she might not speak them at all.

"You told me your father left when you were young, taking your brother with him." She stared hard into his eyes. "Your father is Andropolous, isn't he?"

Stunned surprise crossed his face.

"You found your father," she accused, "and planned your revenge."

"Revenge?" he repeated.

Even as she'd said it, it sounded ridiculous. The man to whom she'd just made love wasn't capable of revenge, no matter whose son he was. Not if it meant hurting her. And hurting her was the only way he was going to get that package.

Her heartbeat faltered. Perhaps she had simply assumed he cared.
What if he hadn't?
Her palms turned clammy. Fear trickled up her spine.

It was as if her eyes were open at last, looking at the truth and recoiling.

"You've been following me," she accused, scarcely able to breathe for every breath hurt.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Talking to me, helping me, lending me money." As she ran through the list, she could feel him mentally ticking each item off.

"I talked to you because I wanted to, helped you because you needed it, loaned you money for the same reason." His voice was low and even, not a criminal's voice at all. If this were the movies he'd be shouting and waving a gun.

"You waited and watched. You took your time. You enjoyed yourself." Her last words were as high and thin as a sorcerer's rope.

"I enjoyed being with you." He gave her a faint smile. "Although you aren't the easiest person alive."

"Why didn't you just take the package?" Blood raced through her veins and hit her head. "Why did you have to humiliate me first?"

He took another step toward her. "I did nothing to harm you. You did that yourself."

She could see him as clearly now as when they'd made love, but this time his lips weren't swollen with passion, nor were his eyes bright with desire. His lips were compressed now, his eyes accusing. He seemed larger, stronger, and more powerful than ever.

He held her gaze with his, his eyes forcing her to stay put when reason demanded she bolt up those stairs and never look back.

"Why did you do it?" he demanded.

"It was a job like any other."

"Not quite like any other."

"Travel. Good money." She faced him squarely. "It was hard to turn down."

"I didn't want to believe you'd do anything for money." His lips twisted. "I guess I was wrong."

She shook her head in dismissal, her stomach churning with the knowledge that even now she knew the truth about him, she cared what he thought.

"Why chase half way across the world after me?" she asked.

"You have what I want."

"You should have talked to your father?"

"I have no father."

"He'd have treated you fairly."

"Alive, or dead, he never treated anyone fairly. But what's that got to do with this." The crease in his forehead deepened.

She resisted the urge to smooth it away. "He's old and confused." No more confused than she.

"Who is?" he demanded.

"Mr. Andropolous," she said impatiently. The perplexed look on Andrew's face made her long to shake him. "Your
father."

"My father?" he repeated stupidly.

"Stop it," she commanded. She couldn't look at him and discuss this, all the while wanting him. Look at him and know he didn't really want her.

He gripped her shoulders. "My father's dead," he said again.

"Then... who is Andropolous?" Her head was swirling. The pieces of the puzzle shifted like sand on a desert.

"Exactly," he said icily. "Who is Andropolous?"

"Mr. Stone's client," she explained, then was instantly furious she had done so. She owed him nothing.

"Mr. Stone?" he demanded sharply.

"Mr. Stone's the man who hired me."

"Wilson," he corrected.

A chill streaked down her arms at the ice in his voice.

"Stone," she insisted. "He said his name was Stone."

"And you believed him."

"Yes, I believed what he told me." Although obviously, she was no judge of what was true, or who to believe.

"Stacia." He shook her shoulders, as though what he was about to ask mattered more than anything on earth. "What do
you
think is in the package?"

She hesitated and was lost. There was no point in prevaricating if he was telling the truth about his father being dead.

"Mr. Andropolous's last will and testament." Hope flickered at the confused expression on Andrew's face. If he wasn't Andropolous's son, he wasn't the villain she'd been warned against.

"There was more than paper in that package," Andrew said tersely. His fingers tightened as if by reflex.

"Just a sweater," she answered, then reached up and grabbed his wrists, was unprepared for the current jolting through her when they touched. She snatched away her hands, sure they'd been burned.

His eyes seemed on fire, also. Their indigo color darkened, settled finally at black, but within their depths, a light flashed.

"How do you know it's a sweater?" His voice was low and accusing.

"I opened it," she said, flushing.

He released her so abruptly she felt disconnected. "Come on," he ordered. He snatched up the food basket and blanket. The light in his eyes burned brighter than ever. "Let's look at it together."

* * *

Andrew had set the pace of a marathon runner, racing back to the hotel with one hand gripping her elbow as though she were a prisoner. Though chilled with apprehension, her skin was slick with sweat, and the sun seemed as determined to blind her as Andrew was to rush her. She stumbled once, but that barely slowed him. He held her weight and pulled her on her way again.

She peered at the key in her hand, her eyes still adjusting to the comparative darkness of the hall. She felt for the key hole and inserted it into the lock. A click, a grating of tumblers, and suddenly they were through.

She took in a deep breath and surveyed her room slowly, aware of Andrew at her back, aware of his impatience. The room seemed unfamiliar, as though it had changed in the hours she'd been gone, but perhaps it was she who had done the changing. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth and across her lips, the only dry parts of her body.

"Get the package," Andrew demanded.

Slowly, reluctantly, she moved toward her suitcase, opened it in front of him and took out the parcel. She faced him and found that even now he moved her, standing before her as he did, tall, strong and handsome. What struck her most was the clarity of his eyes.

Honest eyes, she would have thought.

"Open it," he ordered.

She lifted her chin. "I'm opening nothing. Not until you tell me your interest in this."

Too swiftly for her to stop him, he stepped closer and snatched the package. Only then did he look at her.

His eyes were the blue of the Mediterranean sky. Clear eyes. Open. Eyes you could trust.

She dropped her gaze and stared at his hands instead. She'd come close to trusting him once. That wouldn't happen again.

"My name is Andrew Moore," he told her for a second time. "What's in the package is mine."

His words were clear enough, but it wasn't his words that worked on her doubts. It was his voice. The firm, certain voice of someone who is sure.

She gazed numbly up at him.

"Open it," he said, holding the package toward her.

She couldn't do what he said. Not in front of him. Her breathing slowed, her heart thudded, then slowly, reluctantly, she put out her hand.

It felt as it always did, had the same weight, the same soft solidity, the faint crinkle of paper when squeezed.

"It's not yours to see," she protested, staring once more into his eyes.

"What's in the package is mine and I'm telling you to open it."

If she didn't open it, he would. Stacia started at a corner, gently eased the tape from the paper. She was torn between making sure the contents of the package could be put back no one the wiser, and ripping it open and flinging it in Andrew's face.

The sweater spilled into her hands. Black, the color of Greece, of dignity, and wisdom.

Stacia lowered her gaze to cover her anguish. She had known what was in the package, but had prayed that somehow a miracle would occur, that the contents would become what Andrew expected.

He took the sweater from her hand and held it by its shoulders. An envelope fell to the floor between them. There was no avoiding his eyes now. Bleakly, she looked up.

He wasn't looking at her, but was staring grimly at the sweater. When he did look up, a line scored his brow.

"You didn't know, did you?" His voice resonated with relief.

"Know what?" she asked. "That you weren't telling me the truth?"

Chapter 9