Lovers Never Lie

by Gael Morrison

  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."

  She stared back at him, undecided. Maybe it would be best to go to dinner with Andrew, find out who and what he was. Slowly, she nodded.

  Andrew turned and smiled at Mary. "Perhaps another time, Mrs...?"

  "Argyle," Mary said, her eyelids fluttering. "That would be lovely." She turned to Stacia. "Where are you staying, dear?"

  "The Hotel Athena."

  "Very nice."

  "We enjoy it." Unexpectedly, Andrew grinned.

  "I'm sure," Mary said, smiling primly at them both. "You're having dinner there, I take it."

  "Yes," Andrew replied.

  "Good," Mary said, looking relieved. "You're aware then that you have to be off the streets by eight o'clock."

  "What do you mean?" Andrew demanded.

  "Because of the bombing this morning at the airport—"

  "Yes," he prompted.

  "—Martial Law has been declared."

  Chapter 5

  "Martial Law!" Andrew's fingers tightened around Stacia's arm. "How do you know?"

  "It was in the evening paper."

  "We didn't see that edition," he said grimly.

  Stacia peered at her watch. "It's already seven-thirty." She glanced worriedly around. The crowd had thinned out. While they had been talking, customers had been leaving. Waiters bustled around the empty tables, cleared the dishes, brushed off the crumbs, exchanged dirty table cloths for clean.

  "Goodness," Mary fluttered, struggling to her feet, "is that the time already? I only intended to stay a moment, have a quick cup of tea and a rest for my feet. I've been sight-seeing all day."

  "Where are you staying?" Andrew asked. "We'll escort you home."

  Mary smiled gently. "How nice, but my hotel is just around the corner. You'll be late if you take me back."

  "Never mind." He pulled a chair aside so Mary could get out from behind the table. "You shouldn't be walking the streets alone."

  "Yes, we'll t
ake you." Stacia agreed.

  They hurried out of the taverna into the darkened street. Stacia was glad when Andrew kept his hand on her arm. It felt safer and for once she liked the feeling.

  Miss Argyle seemed happy, too, for their company. She crooked her cane over one hand and contentedly placed her other arm through Andrew's. They made their way up the hill toward the Acropolis then turned to their left.

  "Hurry now," Miss Argyle admonished them from the doorway of her hotel. She glanced up the street. "You really should be taking a taxi, but there doesn't seem—"

  "Don't worry," Andrew said, "we'll make it on time."

  "What will happen if we don't?" Stacia asked, hurrying to keep pace with Andrew's longer stride.

  The expression in Andrew's eyes was grim. "They've probably got the army out if they're serious about patrolling a big city like Athens. If we're caught, they could be nasty, would likely detain us first and ask questions later. I was in Istanbul when a similar thing happened and I—" Andrew shook his head as if to dispel the memories, and increased his pace.

  The cobbled street was dark and empty. Eerie, after being so crowded earlier.

  The Parthenon suddenly loomed ahead, its white columns like sentinels at the gates of heaven.

  Stacia slowed her steps. The ruins seemed bathed in magic. She could smell it in the air and hear it in the whispers of the breeze; could see it in the smooth contours of the sculptures scattered about the ancient plaza.

  Andrew's steps slowed also. "The Parthenon was built for Athena." He looked up at it, admiration in his eyes. "She was a warrior. A beauty, the myths say—" His expression softened and the strong lines of his face relaxed, "—like you."

  He'd called her beautiful before, but the way he said it this time, the way he stared into her eyes, it seemed as though he might kiss her. Stacia's breath caught. If he did, she might like it.

  He leaned toward her and for a long moment his lips were close. Then a cloud swept in front of the moon, throwing Andrew's face into shadow.

  He jerked away. "We'd better get a move on." With a long step forward, he separated himself from her.

  Stacia remained where she was, frozen to the spot.

  Andrew paused then slowly, almost reluctantly, held out his hand. "Come on," he said softly.

  Like the whisper of a ghost's passing, urgency swept away the unexpected desire that had surged through Stacia. She took hold of Andrew's hand and together they plunged down the dark, empty, cobblestone street.

  The stores were shuttered, and the tavernas empty. Signs swung forlornly above doorways in a breeze sweeping up from nowhere. There were no groups of young men boldly eying the girls. There was no one at all. Even the tourists were gone, no doubt hidden behind locked hotel room doors waiting for morning.

  "It's eerie," Stacia whispered.

  Andrew's fingers curled around hers.

  They rounded a corner and Stacia's heart skipped a beat. There were soldiers on this street, dozens of them, terrifyingly anonymous in their combat fatigues.

  As though a single mind connected them, Stacia and Andrew jumped back behind the building on the corner and flattened themselves against the wall.

  "What'll we do?" Stacia whispered. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure the soldiers could hear.

  "What time is it?" Andrew asked.

  She peered at her watch. "Five minutes to eight." She swallowed hard. Their hotel was at least a ten minute walk away.

  Andrew smiled, his eyes holding a challenge. "How fast can you run?"

  "Depends on who's chasing me." Stacia grinned back at him.

  Andrew jerked his thumb toward the soldiers in the next street.

  "Fast," Stacia said.

  His smile widened, and he pulled her close. When his lips descended on hers, an impression raced through her of warmth, hardness, and promises postponed.

  "You're it," he said softly then taking her by the hand, he led her off at a jog in the opposite direction from the soldiers.

  Stacia raced beside him. Her legs pumped and her heart pounded, but whether from the exertion or the kiss, she wasn't sure. She barely knew the man beside her, had no reason to trust him, but however irrational, she was glad he was with her now.

  They spotted pockets of soldiers as they fled through the streets, but they zigzagged down the alleyways, avoiding them. Suddenly their hotel came into sight.

  A knot of soldiers stood in front of the entrance.

  Andrew ducked back into the alleyway, pulling Stacia with him. "What's the time?" he whispered.

  "One minute to go." Stacia caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  "Come on," he said firmly. Still holding her hand, he stepped out of the alley and walked briskly toward the hotel entrance.

  The soldiers straightened, their gazes narrowing. It might have been an illusion, but Stacia was certain their grips tightened around their rifles.

  "Evening," Andrew said, ignoring the soldiers' guns.

  Stacia waited for the order to halt, imagined as she and Andrew mounted the hotel steps, a rifle barrel thrust into her back. Each inch of ground they covered seemed suddenly a mile. Andrew's face was a cool mask, but she could tell by the way his hand tightened around hers that he, too, expected something.

  The soldiers did nothing.

  Andrew opened the hotel door and nudged Stacia through before him. "You wanted adventure," he said, smiling down at her as they crossed the empty lobby.

  * * *

  The subdued lighting of the hotel dining room made Andrew's eyes glow like sapphires, and when he smiled again at Stacia, a tingling sensation began in her chest.

  She pulled her gaze away and stabbed an olive with her fork. "I think we should set some guidelines."

  "Guidelines?"

  "I did not come to Greece for romance."

  "Romance?" Andrew repeated, his eyebrows rising.

  Heat crawled up Stacia's throat. "We kissed, we—"

  Andrew leaned forward and for a moment Stacia was certain he meant to kiss her again.

  "That wasn't romance," he said softly, "that was lust."

  The heat spread to her cheeks. "Call it what you will, I don't want it. I don't want anything."

  "Nothing?"

  "Except a bed, food and some money." She groaned. "But I'll pay you back just as soon as my bank opens on Monday."

  "No rush." His gaze darted to where Stacia's tote bag lay at her feet then just as swiftly returned to her face.

  She pressed her lips tight. Andrew Moore was awfully good at getting what he wanted, and from the way he looked at her package, she could tell he was curious. She nudged her bag with her foot, reassured by its touch, then slowly brought her fork to her mouth. One way or other, she had to find out the truth.

  "So what would you like to know?"

  Stacia choked. The olive forced its way whole down her throat.

  "My name, rank or serial number?" He gave her a sexy smile.

  Her father had once told her all men deceived when they wanted something badly enough. She steeled her heart, and ignored Andrew's smile.

  "What work do you do?" she asked.

  Andrew hesitated. He had planned what to say, but looking at Stacia now the lie seemed more wrong than stealing. "I'm a businessman," he finally managed.

  "What kind of business?"

  "Small business, small town. Nothing too exciting." But in many ways that was more appealing than the reality. Pain forked through him, as it had throughout the eight years since Nancy died. He rolled his shoulders, tried to loosen them.

  "So what are you doing in Greece?" Stacia asked.

  "You asked me that before."

  "I'm asking again."

  "Vacation," he said, staring straight into her eyes, as a person who was telling the truth would do.

  With a sigh, she glanced down again at her bag. The sight of it seemed to spur her on, made her look at him once more.

  "So what was going on at the taverna?" she
demanded.

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  "You were the one chasing strangers," she replied hotly. "You knew him, didn't you?"

  "No." But Andrew could guess what the man was there for and he didn't like the answer.

  "Then why?" she asked again, slowly, as if to a child. "Why were you chasing him?"

  Andrew somehow managed to remain calm. "Because he looked as though he meant to do you harm." Air forced its way rapidly through his clenched teeth. "Have you forgotten what happened this morning at the airport?"

  He watched her flinch, and her eyes dulled from a rich mahogany to a lifeless brown. No, she hadn't forgotten, probably never would.

  "The government is taking the bombing seriously enough to proclaim martial law. We should take it at least as seriously."

  "What happened at the airport had nothing to do with us," she protested.

  "I hope not," he said, "or have anything to do with the guy with the knife."

  She looked sick.

  He forced a smile. "I saved your life. Chinese philosophers would say I now have an obligation to keep you safe forever." He reached for her hand. Her fingers felt icy. They lay in his palm tensely, curling inward and away. He began to rub them, wanting to warm them, but glancing into her eyes, he saw the warning.

  "Dance with me," he said instead. He stood, but she didn't move, and for an instant he was sure she would snatch her hand away. But in the end she relented and came into his arms, close enough to touch, too far away to kiss.

  He realized with amazement, that a kiss was what he wanted. To explore her softness with his mouth, taste her essence and breathe her scent. His hand tightened around hers and he watched her lips part, the expression on her face stirring a fierce protectiveness within him.

  Pulling her closer, he found her smaller and more fragile than she had seemed standing separate. He could feel the knobs of her spine as he placed his hand on her back.

  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.