Lovers Never Lie (9 page)

There were curves there, as well, beneath her loose fitting dress. Her hips spread from her narrow waist in a womanly way, as sumptuous as a Botticelli painting and as enticing to his hands as her lips were to his mouth.

He gazed at the delicate features of her face. Too thin, he had assumed before. Perfect, he thought now.

She held herself stiffly, her distrust as obvious as the color of her eyes; brown, with flecks of something darker, yet at the same time, light. Eyes that bewitched.

Her hair matched her eyes. It too was brown, but streaked through with red-gold, as though the sun had touched it with its heat. It fell soft as silk around her face and cascaded against his fingers as his hand trailed up her back.

He shut his eyes, intending to shut out her allure, assuming he wouldn't want what he couldn't see. But her scent embraced him as patently as the violin strains embraced the dancers, urging them to movement with its haunting refrain.

She smelled as she looked, like the earth in all its glory, of a muskiness overlaid with the freshness of flowers. He longed to fill himself with her, to lose himself and his painful memories in her heady scent.

Stifling a groan, he opened his eyes. Her body had lost its stiffness and now melted against his. Her breasts lay crushed against his chest, her nipples hard beneath her dress.

Her nearness drove him mad. He couldn't want her like this, couldn't want her at all.

But he kissed her anyway.

Stacia was unprepared for the need billowing within, for the lips so hard and the kiss so soft. He kissed her lightly at first, as though savoring the first sip of a fine wine. Then he demanded more, his mouth exploring, insistent.

His breath mingled with hers. It was impossible to think, to insist on remaining separate. It was as though they had always been drowning in each other's heat.

Then his lips left hers and he glanced toward their table, toward her tote bag still lying at the foot of her chair.

She felt like a sleeper awakening from a trance. Slowly, stiffly, she pulled away.

"Just making sure your bag is safe," he explained lightly.

She frowned.

"You don't want to lose anything else."

She extricated her hand from his. "We'd better get going."

"You haven't finished your dinner."

"I'm not hungry." She stepped away. Another dancer's foot came down hard against her heel. Stacia murmured her apologies, not daring another glance into Andrew's compelling eyes, and moved back to their table as swiftly as her throbbing foot would allow. She picked up her bag, felt relief at the heaviness within.

Andrew drew close behind her, his warmth encircling hers. She longed to turn and touch the hard line of his shoulders, to sink into the comfort of his chest once more. But instead she squared her shoulders and stopped the inclination.

She couldn't want his touch, not believing what she did, not after seeing his expression when he looked at her bag. She wouldn't be free of Andrew until she did the task for which she'd been paid—get the package to Mr. Andropolous's son without further incident.

She turned and faced the hard blue of Andrew's eyes then together she and Andrew walked out of the hotel dining room. Side by side, but apart. She felt sore from the exertion of trying not to touch him, of keeping separate when all she wanted was his hands on her skin. As they rode the elevator slowly upward, Stacia's fear grew.

At their room, Andrew inserted his key into the lock. She hung back while he swung the door wide in front of her. Scarcely breathing, she glanced through the door to the bed beyond. Its hand-woven coverlet was turned down invitingly and the pillows were plumped and ready for use.

He turned to face her, his gaze locking with hers. He didn't speak and she couldn't, but the silence drummed her ears. Nothing moved; not a muscle, not an eyelash... nothing. Then, with a swift intake of breath, Andrew moved back into the hall, scarcely touching her as he passed, but close enough for her to feel his heat.

"I'll be back later," he said curtly. "Don't wait up." With that final instruction, he strode down the hall and into the elevator, watching her as the doors closed behind him.

She hadn't realized until then that she'd been holding her breath. It exploded from her lungs in a long drawn out whoosh. She shut the door behind her, but fear trickled through her body, creating a suffocating blackness.

Andrew's leaving solved nothing. He'd come back, and when he did, she'd want him just as fiercely.

* * *

Her bed sheets were a tangled mess. One more wriggle and the top sheet would come undone altogether. There. It
had.
Wearily, Stacia swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She could scarcely see. A sliver of light shone through from the bathroom, but that was all. Her toe banged up hard against the brass bed frame and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She walked gingerly to the end of the bed and ripped off the covers. She had to hurry. Andrew might return soon and when he did, she didn't want to be awake.

With a shiver, she wished she had brought her flannel nightie, and hadn't let Angela talk her into buying this silky wisp of nothing. She had told her friend this trip was for discovering the wonders of antiquity, not for waltzing around in see-through black silk. But Angela had smiled cheekily and said you never knew when you'd get lucky.

The illuminated dial of her travel alarm showed two-thirty already. Where could Andrew be? The hotel bar, if that was where he had gone, wouldn't be open all night. Although this was Greece. Who knew what hours they kept?

She flipped the sheet into the air, and held one end tight as it floated back to the bed. Guided by touch, she tucked in the corners. Hospital corners, the kind Grandmother Roberts had taught her to make. Corners that stayed put. Impossible to uproot if you slept properly, her grandmother had told her sternly.

Completely unlike Stacia's mother's sheets.
She
had flung them on carelessly, laughing at Stacia's suggestion she do them like her grandmother, telling her instead to hang them in the outdoor breeze and capture the scent of the flowers, then tuck them in lightly so the scent could escape. Like sleeping in a garden, her mother had insisted, rather than a jail.

Control was what Stacia needed tonight. She smoothed the blanket flat, her fingers lingering on the nubby woven texture of the edging. With a sudden shiver, she hopped back into bed and pulled the blankets up around her.

It was better than before. Her feet were locked into position as if they were tied. No more tossing and turning and thinking about Andrew. Now she would sleep. She could only pray.

* * *

If he kept his eyes averted from the bed, he might just be able to forget she was there. If he didn't see her hair spread out over the pillow, or the soft arch of her brow, it might be possible to banish her from his mind. If he didn't look at her, he might be safe.

But the gentle sound of Stacia's breathing entrapped him as completely as a siren's call. He couldn't force his feet further. It didn't help to tell himself her vulnerability was an act that she was not someone he needed to protect.

For even as he thought it, he couldn't quite believe it, couldn't prevent himself from searching for her in the shadowy light of the moon filtering in through the unshuttered window.

The moon bathed her face in silver, and her cheeks were flushed, her features more delicate than they had appeared in the light of day. Her eyelids seemed transparent, but still they hid the entrance to her soul.

She didn't look like a woman with secrets, a woman who would lie. Andrew's heart began to pound. She looked like a woman ready for love.

A groan echoed from his lips before he could stifle it. The need to hold her was overwhelming, to crush her to his chest and run his hands over her body, to touch her satin skin and breathe the fragrance of her hair, to taste her nectar, and wrap her in his arms... to keep her safe.

If he could force himself to leave her bedside, the discomfort of the sofa, with its short length and prickly cover, might be enough to drive all thoughts of love-making from his mind.

He took a step backward, but she moved, also, rolling onto her back. Her hand emerged from beneath her cheek and splayed open on the sheet, her skin a pale cream against the white linen.

His brain ordered his legs to action, but when her lips fluttered open, he paused in mid-stride, mesmerized by the red curve of her mouth, entranced by the soft sigh escaping.

"Andrew..." she murmured.

Warmth flooded through him, blocking his intentions. He moved towards the bed, leaned closer in order to hear, was stirred by the sound of his name in her dreams.

She flung her head to one side, the sound of her moan muffled by her hair. Her neck lay exposed, its slender length both alluring and vulnerable. Her hand moved again, toward his arm this time. He steeled himself against her touch. Her fingers closed around his wrist, loosened once, then tightened again. Beneath her fingertips, he knew his pulse was racing.

Her lips closed and the gentle rise and fall of her chest ceased. It was as though she was suddenly holding her breath, as though she had moved from dream state to consciousness. She released his wrist and her fingers drifted lower until she found his hand.

Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes impossibly dark in the shadowy light.

"Andrew," she breathed.

At the soft inflection she put on his name, his heart ceased its racing, seemed not to beat at all.

For one endless moment, her hand lay motionless in his. Her whole body was still, as though she were trying to decide. Then her forefinger drew a circle in his palm, scoring heat into his skin. A longing gripped him. He silently cursed.

With her face still soft from sleep, fine lines from a wrinkled pillow slip indented her cheek. Her eyes were soft too, although smudged with fatigue. He could see them properly now as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and the moon's glow coming from the window.

"You were sleeping," he said gruffly. Ridiculous thing to say, but he was incapable of anything better.

Her eyes half closed, and without uttering a response, she raised her hand to his face and caressed the line of his jaw. His heart thumped against his chest, and his breathing grew shallow.

Unable to stop, calling himself every kind of a fool, he brought her fingers to his lips. Her scent beguiled him, pulled him, made him need her as though she were food, light and air.

She rose onto one elbow, her eyes closing further. Did she not want to see or admit to their intimacy? He traced kisses down her arm, pausing only to explore the soft hollow of its inner side.

He pushed aside her nightie's silken strap and trailed kisses across her bare shoulder. Her skin quivered beneath his lips, and desire snaked through him. Her nipples rose against the sheerness of her nightgown, intoxicating him as the whiskey he'd drunk had not, drowning him in a torrent of need.

Stacia put her arm around his neck and pulled him close. Her lips were as he remembered, soft, but full with passion. They parted and her tongue touched his, sparking an avalanche of sensation.

He hungrily took her mouth in his then kissed her cheek and the hollow behind her ear. Her skin was as soft as a baby's, but her body was all woman. She melted against him, her arms drawing him nearer.

He laid his head on her chest, savoring the rise of her breasts beneath his cheek and the wild thudding of her heart. Then he lifted his head and stared into her eyes. Wide open now, they stared back at his, revealing her arousal and her fear.

He drew away. His body stiffened, protested his brain's command. A hollow had opened within his soul begging to be filled.

But that couldn't happen. Not here. Not now. Not when the fear in Stacia's eyes jolted his suspicions into focus.

Her breasts heaved as though she'd been running, and her lips parted, gasping for air. Her fingers matched his, curling into balls as though to stop themselves from taking all that they wanted.

"Andrew," she said again, shakily this time.

"Don't worry," he said, sucking in a deep breath, "nothing is going to happen." But nothing his brain commanded could stop his hand from touching hers. Her fingers were cold as ice.

She stared down at their locked hands, the expression in her eyes dazed.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said, wishing the morning was now.

She opened her mouth to speak, but in the end bit her lip. He managed, somehow, to turn and walk out the door, but the sound of her heart still beat in his head, and the scent of her perfume still clung to his clothes.

It was hours before he returned, and when he did, he listened from the doorway before entering. Stacia's breathing was slow and regular. She was asleep once more. Light from the bathroom shafted through the blackness. She'd left it on for him.

As Nancy used to do.

Andrew beat back his memories and tiptoed into the room. He moved noiselessly to the cupboard where it took only seconds to find Stacia's bag and extract the package. He carried it into the bathroom and laid it on the counter, quickly easing open the wrapping. An envelope and sweater spilled into his hands.