Lovers Never Lie

by Gael Morrison

  What if he took off with her bag? Stacia quickened her step. Perspiration trickled into her eyes. Now she couldn't see him at all anymore. She peered ahead anxiously, got one glimpse of his head as it bobbed into sight, then just as swiftlyit was gone again.

  Stacia swore under her breath and forced her feet faster. She hadn't seen him turn off, but if he hadn't, where was he? Her heart began to pound, and her throat burned as though deprived of air. Had to slow down. Couldn't.

  Gate 47 at last. Oh God, where was he?

  She scrunched her eyes tight. Maybe when she opened them, a miracle would occur and he would be there.

  "What on earth are you doing?"

  Her eyelids snapped open at the sound of his voice, and like magic the rest of him appeared in front of her.

  "Meditating?" he asked mildly. "Praying for divine intervention? Or did you think I'd made off with your bag?"

  "You were going awfully fast."

  "Sorry," he apologized, but shrugged as he did so, the movement graceful and uniquely European.

  Was he Greek? Mr. Andropolous's younger son might look like this man. Or perhaps he was some other faceless relative determined to get his hands on the old man's will. Uncertainty seeped through her like water through sand. Silently, she held out her hand for her suitcase.

  "Enjoy your trip," the man said, handing over her bag.

  There was no avoiding the touch of his fingers this time. They only rested against hers for the briefest of moments, but the sensation of electricity returned, like the shock you got walking across carpets in an over-heated room.

  Stacia's heart sank. It wasn't that kind of electricity at all.

  Chapter 2

  First Class. With a contented sigh, Stacia settled into the wide, comfortable seat. Six months ago, she would never have imagined herself sitting in First Class on an airplane bound for Greece.

  Her father would have been against the idea. Too dangerous he would have said. Too foreign. Although he had said the same thing about Chicago, had nixed her plans to attend the university there, had even protested her infrequent shopping trips, saying the stores in their own small town had everything she needed.

  Grandmother Roberts would have disapproved also. Whenever Stacia brought up the idea of traveling abroad, her grandmother's lips had tightened. No proper dinners to be had abroad, she said. No turkey and stuffing. No roast beef and mashed potatoes.

  Stacia grinned. The only foreign food she had ever convinced her grandmother to try had been lasagna. Even then the old woman had stared at it suspiciously, and sniffed it once or twice before raising a morsel to her lips. When she took her second bite, Stacia's father had winked at Stacia from his end of the table.

  The open wound still in Stacia's heart gnawed at her chest. Her father had been dead for months, but the grieving hadn't eased. She still missed him, as she did her mother.

  She had been only twelve when her mother died, too young to understand the irrationality of the guilt that pierced her body-numbing grief. She had believed then that it was her fault her mother had become sick, that if she had been a better daughter, hadn't argued so much, her mother wouldn't have got cancer. Wouldn't have died and left her and her father all alone.

  She'd stood frozen by her mother's deathbed and had privately vowed to care for her father in her mother's place. She had managed it, too, had cleaned the house, made the meals, even worked in the local library instead of going on to university.

  It wasn't until her father died that Stacia realized how wrapped up she had been in his life, so worried about his happiness, she hadn't bothered with her own. And he had let her, for it kept her close and safe.

  Stacia rolled her shoulders, released the tension gathering there. Her father was dead. No amount of grieving would bring him back. It was time now for adventure, perhaps even a little romance.

  "Is it safe to sit here?"

  She knew that voice.

  "Or will your luggage fall on my head?"

  Reluctantly, Stacia turned to face the aisle. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "Going on vacation," the man with the sapphire eyes replied. He stretched up and slapped his satchel next to hers in the overhead compartment, then snapped the compartment door shut and flopped into the seat beside her. "It seems I'm not the only one." He glanced at her curiously. "Or are you going to Greece on business?"

  "Vacation," she said lightly. "A bit of adventure." She frowned. "You didn't tell me you were on this flight?"

  He settled his seat belt over his hips and fastened it, his elbow passing precariously close to her breast. She leaned as far away from him as possible.

  "I didn't know we were on the same flight," he replied. "When I met you, I hadn't had a chance to look at my ticket yet. Didn't know which gate my flight took off from." He shot her a swift grin. "It seemed safer to get you where you needed to be first."

  "I didn't need you to keep me safe."

  "It's not your safety I'm concerned with," he replied. "It's the poor sucker unlucky enough to get in your way the next time you toss your luggage around."

  "I did not throw my—"

  "You've brought too many things. The first rule of traveling on your own, Miss Roberts, is to travel light. Like me," he added with a smug smile.

  The heat drained from Stacia's face. "How do you know my name?"

  Before he could answer, the plane jolted into action. As it raced down the runway, Stacia grasped her arm rest. The aircraft shimmied and rattled, before at last sweeping into the sky.

  The man glanced sideways, his gaze probing her face the way his fingers had probed her package. "It's on your suitcase," he whispered solemnly.

  Her breath escaped in a rush, and as it did, the plane straightened, found the correct elevation and leveled off. A fellow traveler. That's all he was. Stone's warning had made her paranoid.

  Andrew studied the face of the girl beside him. If Stacia Roberts had nothing to hide, why had she turned so pale? And why would she care if he knew her name?

  Still... he shifted in his seat. She was difficult to figure, didn't seem the sort to be a player in this game. But if the past had taught him anything, it had taught him it was dangerous to make assumptions. Especially about women!

  And if this woman suspected he was on to her, he'd never get what he wanted.

  "What's your name?" she demanded, in a low husky voice. It shouldn't have matched her face with those clear brown eyes and upturned nose, but somehow it did, hinting at passion and depth.

  Andrew gave himself a mental shake. It didn't matter how she looked or sounded. Stacia Roberts was beginning to get to him and that had to stop.

  "Did you hear me?" she asked, her face plainly anxious.

  He opened his mouth then closed it again. If he gave his real name, she would know he was on to her, yet if she reacted, he'd have his answer. Besides which, names were tricky, hard to conceal, especially with passports, traveler's checks, and credit cards.

  "Andrew Moore," he replied finally.

  "Where are you from?"

  "Here, there... everywhere." He shrugged, deliberately vague.

  She stared at him with unwavering eyes.

  No you don't, lady. He averted his gaze. He had too much at stake to be pulled into this woman's web with innocent looks.

  "I mean originally," she persisted.

  Biting back an oath, he faced her again. "Small town south of Chicago."

  Her eyes darkened to the deep brown of the earth after a rain. A man could get lost in eyes like hers—could get wrapped up in their promise and never escape. It was almost a relief when she turned and gazed at the seat in front of her.

  "You look as though your family originally came from Italy." She spoke as if she were reluctant to speak at all. "Or... or Greece?" The last word all but disappeared in the hum of conversation around them.

  Greek relatives. He thought quickly. Might be useful to have a few. Easier to follow her around the country if he cou
ld casually mention a cousin here, or an uncle there.

  "My mother was Greek." He repressed a grin. His mother would turn in her grave if she could hear him say such a thing. She'd been British to the bone, had never even lost her accent despite the years she had lived with his father's mid-western twang, and had carefully tutored them all on proper elocution, insisting fuzzy vowels were the quickest route to social disgrace.

  "Oh," Stacia Roberts said.

  "Care for a drink before dinner, sir?"

  The polite cadence of the flight attendant's voice reassured Stacia. Her breathing steadied as Andrew Moore transferred his gaze to the smiling woman in the aisle.

  "Scotch, please," he answered, without hesitation, "and a glass of white wine for the lady."

  "No, thank you," Stacia said.

  He turned to her. "I could have sworn wine would be your drink. What would you like then?" His tone was formal, his voice studiously polite.

  She could refuse to have anything, but her mouth was so dry. "I'd like—" She cast around for something wonderfully wild to order, something she had never tried before, "—a bourbon and water, please."

  Her father's drink. Not a nice drink for a woman, her grandmother would have said, but what did she know, living in the past as she had?

  At least she had managed to startle Andrew Moore. Incredible how satisfying that felt. He had the most expressive eyebrows she'd ever seen. When he frowned they met in a bushy bridge above his nose. Wine indeed! She reached across him accepting her drink from the flight attendant.

  No ice. Stacia stared at her glass doubtfully. Her father had never had ice. But her drink looked a little... brown, not thirst-quenching at all. She snuck a sideways peek at Andrew. He was watching her still. No time for second thoughts. Her father had liked bourbon. So would she.

  She raised the drink to her lips slowly, her stomach quailing as the fumes assailed her nose. Wine didn't smell.

  But this was what traveling was all about. Trying new things. Off with the old, and on with the new. She should be grateful to Andrew Moore. She took a sip.

  No, not grateful. The bourbon scorched a path down her throat into her stomach. Stacia twisted her head toward the window and pretended an interest in the blackness outside. She'd never be able to drink the entire glass.

  "Drink all right?"

  "Fine, thanks." She faced him again, even attempted a smile, but it was difficult with a mouth shrunken from the taste of the alcohol.

  He took a long sip of his scotch then set his glass on the table in front of him. His hands were nice. Strong, capable fingers.

  His face was the same. Fine, intelligent features, determined chin.... Not a man you'd want to oppose. She turned away.

  "Is this your first trip to Greece?"

  Reluctantly, she faced him again. "Yes," she answered. Her first trip anywhere.

  "How long will you be staying?"

  Was he simply being polite, one traveler to another? Or was there something ominous about the question.

  "I'm not sure." Her answer startled her, yet filled her with a sudden pleasure. It had sounded as though she hadn't any plans at all. In the past, she'd always known exactly where she was going and what she would be doing. And had hated it, she suddenly realized.

  "I thought I'd play it by ear," she added impulsively.

  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.