She gestured to the fisherman to wait and started up the narrow path. The higher she got, the more lightheaded she became. Only a mountain goat would enjoy this view. She didn't like heights. She'd found that out one summer when she begged her boyfriend of the moment to take her climbing. She had frozen in the middle of the cliff, unable to go up, or down, or sideways. Her boyfriend had encouraged and cajoled, but nothing he said convinced her it was safe to move. She clung to the rock face, her fingers frozen in place until a park ranger edged across to rescue her.
Stacia shuddered, was glad this cliff had a trail. If she was able to fight the urge to look down, she might not be undone as she'd been before. Though looking up was just as bad. The vision of clear, blue sky atop an unending line of grey granite was dizzying in the extreme.
The urge to check her bearings came again, and she succumbed to a swift glance below.
Her boat was leaving!
She moved too suddenly. An avalanche of gravel flew from beneath her feet and skittered down the trail. She shouted, her voice pitched abnormally high with shock. The sound echoed off the rocks and bounced back at her. The taxiing fisherman, already clear of the shallow water, glanced up at her and waved.
"Come back," Stacia screamed again, gesturing wildly with her arm.
The fisherman waved back, grinning cheerfully up at her. He obviously didn't understand her any better than she had him. With his engine going, he probably couldn't even hear her voice, and she could do nothing but watch helplessly as the boat put-putted its way back to Agios Nikolaos.
The package she carried seemed suddenly too heavy, the urge to retreat overwhelming. But if she bolted when the going got tough, Andrew would have to face the danger alone. Dismally, she faced the rocky trail and took another step upward.
The path narrowed further, but by squinting to block out the view she made it to the top. A short walk along a grassy knoll and suddenly she was there.
The fortress appeared eerily frighteningly empty, with nary a guard or ticket taker, or even an old crone intent on cleaning ancient corridors.
Stacia had a sudden sickening intuition she was already too late, that she'd find Andrew lying within, perhaps beaten and tied up. She stepped through the open archway and into the dim shadow of the building, certain that at any moment an alarm might ring or sirens blare, warning Andropolous she had arrived.
The crude map Andropolous had sent her was a mess of dashes and squiggles. She studied it closely, even turned it upside down in an attempt to make sense of it, but that gesture simply increased its maze-like confusion.
The old guard room had to be down the narrow passage on her left. Stacia glanced back at the map and hoped she was wrong. There was no place there to hide, no nook to enter should she need it, no cranny to crouch within if she felt danger. With the worn smoothness of the passage's walls, she'd be as exposed as a clay duck in a shooting gallery.
She shook her head, but couldn't dispel the haunting images of death and destruction. The thoughts clung to her like the cobwebs on the surrounding walls, the result of too many movies and too many books.
Stacia squared her shoulders. She was a fool to imagine the worst. She would walk down the passage, find Andrew, and wait with him until Andropolous arrived. Arriving first would put them in a position of power, and make it possible to initiate a sensible discussion with sensible solutions.
And if Andrew wasn't there yet, she'd pretend to know nothing, would simply hand over the package and get out. But she would know who Andropolous was and be able to describe him to Andrew.
Most importantly, she'd be able to prevent Andrew from being the one to confront Andropolous. If he wasn't there to lose his temper, he would not get shot at, injured, or worse. He would be safe.
Stacia smiled faintly as the dreaded word insinuated itself into her brain. It wasn't nearly so dreadful when applied to someone she cared about.
Panic appeared from nowhere, scattering her resolve.
She had realized at the villa that she cared for Andrew, but not to this extent. She touched her fingers to her throat, felt the cording of her neck muscles and the vibration of soundless protest. Splaying her fingers up and over her lips, she was stunned to find that no sound emerged. Only a whisper of air entered then departed again swiftly.
She pressed her lips resolutely tight and dropped her hands to her sides, waiting and praying for the hammering of her heart to slow, and the incessant pounding of blood in her head to silence. Finally, she breathed in two deep breaths, and forced her feet forward, not walking steadfastly down the middle as she had envisioned, but rather ghost-like along the wall, one hand outstretched to touch the cool, soothing stone beneath her fingertips.
Mid-way down the passage she paused and held the map up to the light shafting in through the dimness from one high window. The first room on her right had to be the one she searched for.
Two feet, four, ten, and she was there.
Stacia slowly expelled her breath, her lungs close to bursting from holding in the air. Though she still saw no one, she was afraid to make a sound.
With her cheeks sucked in between her teeth, she edged open the heavy door to the room. Stale air met her nostrils, and the damp musky scent you might find in a cave.
"Good morning, Miss Roberts."
Stacia pushed the door wider, her heart skipping mid beat at the sound of her name.
"Miss Argyle!" she exclaimed. Adrenaline, too long held, fled Stacia's body. Her strength drained with it. Her knees came close to crumpling and her arms fell limply to her sides. She stared with relief at the elderly woman opposite, standing against the far wall, capacious handbag on the floor beside her.
"I didn't think anyone was here," Stacia said. Except Andrew. Where was he? She attempted to cross the space between them, but her body refused to cooperate.
"You're right. It's early," Miss Argyle said, her voice holding a trace of amusement.
"You have to leave," Stacia urged, her previous panic surging back. "I'm meeting someone here." Heat flooded her face. "I—" She couldn't explain it to Miss Argyle, no matter how afraid she was that the older woman would end up in the middle.
"That young man I've seen you with?" the older woman prompted.
"No... yes..."
"Is he coming?" A faint smile lingered on Miss Argyle's lips, but her pleasant expression didn't extend to her eyes.
Uncertainty gripped Stacia.
"Is he?" Miss Argyle demanded again, more insistently this time.
A sudden, incomprehensible inclination to lie overwhelmed Stacia, to do anything to keep the truth hidden from this woman. But how could she lie when she didn't know what to say.
"No-o," she said slowly, her stomach churning, but her gaze never wavering from Miss Argyle's face. For an instant, something new flickered in the older woman's eyes. Relief? Satisfaction? It didn't matter. Somehow, intuitively, Stacia knew she'd said the right thing.
"Good." The unsteady wobble of age disappeared with the word, leaving Mary Argyle's voice firmer, more youthful in tone.
A clammy chill jacketed Stacia's body.
"You have something for me, I believe." Mary Argyle stepped closer. Her walk was different also, her step more limber.
Miss Argyle's determination caused the dread to roar up Stacia's spine and a claustrophobic fear seeped into her pores. Like some dreadful disease, the fear traveled through her veins, first heating, then freezing, then immobilizing her body.
She shrank against the door jamb, wanting only to run, yet certain that if she did, something dreadful would occur. Something more terrible than standing and waiting for a woman she no longer knew, to reach her.
She longed for the comfort of Andrew's arms and the strength of his hand holding on to hers. But his touch seemed as distant from this woman and this place as the sun in the sky seemed remote from the earth.
"What do you want?" Stacia whispered, her lips so dry the words came out cracked.
"You kn
ow what I want." Miss Argyle halted beside a desk, the room's only piece of furniture, a modern incongruity in the presence of the past. "Now," she commanded, holding out her hand for Stacia's bag.
"I was meant to deliver this to Mr. Andropolous," Stacia said. She slid her arms behind her back, putting her tote bag and the package out of sight.
If she pretended the original instructions still stood, perhaps even now there was some escape. Some return to innocence. Some possibility she could simply hand over the package and be let go. Perhaps even now her fear could be hidden, the sheen of sweat erupting on her body somehow made invisible.
Miss Argyle's answering laugh was loud in the echoing emptiness of the room. Whether it penetrated the thick stone of the fortress, Stacia was uncertain, but one thing she did know. She had never felt so alone.
"There is no Mr. Andropolous," Mary Argyle said.
She had known since the day before that Andropolous was a fake, but she didn't want Miss Argyle to take his place. A humming began in Stacia's ears, blocking the starkness of the older woman's words, but nothing could disguise the contempt on Miss Argyle's face.
Stacia squared her shoulders and willed her body to move, only to find that when she tried she couldn't force her feet to action.
She pressed her lips together and with a great effort of will, repositioned her tote bag and squeezed it, feeling the package inside. It reassured her to know she still had it in her hands, that she hadn't simply handed it over at Mary Argyle's command.
"Miss Argyle," she began, steadying her gaze on the older woman's face. She needed to know the truth, even if it was the last thing she'd ever know.
"Stupid name!" the older woman spat out.
Stacia stared at her, dazed.
"That's not my real name," Mary Argyle continued.
"What is?"
Mary's lips widened into a parody of a smile. "Not that. Not some stupid English name." Satisfaction gleamed from her eyes. "There's no harm in telling you now—"
An icy finger of fear threaded its way across Stacia's shoulders and slid down her back...
"—as you'll not be telling anyone else."
...then lodged at the base of her spine, locking her to the cold stone floor.
"Maria Argolis," the older woman introduced herself proudly, sweeping a lock of grey hair back from her face.
"Why go by a false name?" Stacia spoke the words forcefully to rid her voice of any quaver, wishing she had the power to dent the other woman's satisfaction.
Maria's face took on the look of a ferret, too sharp and cunning to be human. "Your precious Mr. Moore would have recognized the name Argolis." Maria's clipped British accent disappeared as swiftly as a chameleon changes color, the more melodic Greek tones taking its place.
"He's had dealings with my brother," Maria continued. "He ruined him, sent him to jail." Her mouth hardened. "My brother was stupid, of course, getting caught with the diamonds." She gave a snort of disgust. "He deserves to rot in jail if he can't follow instructions." Her face took on a gloating expression. "They couldn't pin the murder on him though. He hadn't done that. I didn't dare let him. He'd have messed it up one way or another."
"What murder?" Stacia whispered.
"Never mind," Maria snapped. Her blue eyes were no longer vague with age, but had darkened to the color of glistening black slate.
"If he didn't do it, then who did?" Stacia asked.
"I did," Maria said. "Now give me the package."
Stacia's arms went rigid. Her bag suddenly felt sharp-edged and stiff against her fingers. Her legs seemed to have no feeling in them at all, no blood, sinew, or nerves. There was nothing to allow her to twist through the door and race down the passage toward freedom.
Her mind flashed transitorily to Andrew, the memory of his steady eyes and comforting touch helping her to draw in a calming breath. She readied herself, felt her muscles coil and tighten. She willed her face to become impassive. She could allow no muscle, no twitching nerve or flickering eye to indicate her intention to flee. She had what she had come for, the identity of Andropolous, and now she had to get that information to Andrew.
Resting one hand against the door jamb, she held her gaze low, ready to duck and twirl, whirl and run.
"I wouldn't try it if I were you," Maria's terrifying voice continued.
Stacia's right eye twitched and panic welled in her belly. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her head, and the hammering of her heart ceased as she stared down the cold, metallic barrel of a pistol.
She knew her eyes had widened from the sudden chill in their corners and the wetness of collecting moisture.
"The package," Maria Argolis demanded, holding the gun steady and pointing it at her.
"Why didn't you take it when you had the chance?" Stacia asked. "Why didn't you take it at the hotel? You could have taken it then."
"I tried," Maria said coldly, "but you came back too soon." She raised the gun higher. "I imagine you're sorry about that now."
Stacia fought to capture a breath, to force at least some air into her lungs. If she concentrated on one limb at a time, perhaps she could will her body to move. She slowly lifted her arm and brought her tote bag into view. She didn't want to look at it, didn't have to actually see it to know she had failed.
Unable to take her gaze off the gun, she stared down its sleek length and imagined the thud the bullet would make in her chest. It was as if it had already happened, the pain there was so excruciating.
She'd thought nothing could be worse than knowing Andrew had used her, that he'd made love to her and helped her, with just one goal in mind, retrieving his diamonds. But she'd been wrong.
Within minutes, perhaps seconds, a bullet would blast from that pistol and she'd never see Andrew again. That would be the worst thing.
In slow motion, as if it were someone else's arm altogether, Stacia observed her arm lift and extend the tote bag outward. With an ominous click, Maria Argolis cocked the gun, took the proffered bag, and backed away.
So Maria's neat grey pant suit wouldn't be spattered with blood, Stacia thought dully. She stood far enough away to remain clean and tidy. Nothing to connect the woman opposite with the violence the pistol promised.
"It's too bad it has to end this way," Maria said coldly, her voice detached, and clinical, as though Stacia was about to be fired from a job, not murdered in cold blood. Maria pulled the package out of the bag, ripped it open, and shook out the sweater. The diamonds sparkled against the black wool, catching what little light came into the area.
Rage flared heat across Stacia's cheeks and down the icy length of her neck and chest, cutting through the misty, swirling oblivion. She couldn't just let this happen, couldn't allow this woman to shoot without somehow trying to stop her. Stacia raised her hand and held her palm outward, as though her flesh alone could stop the attack.
"I regret it's necessary to shoot you," Maria said tauntingly, "but you do understand, don't you, that I can't allow you to tell anyone about me."
"I won't tell anyone," Stacia promised. She held her body rigid, determined to stop herself from sinking to the floor on knees too weak to hold her.
"You won't have the opportunity," the other woman replied sharply.
"They'll find you," Stacia cried. "I expect the police will arrive any minute now." If only that was true.
Argolis's finger tightened on the trigger.
The hair rose on the back of Stacia's neck.
"Crete is a small place," she whispered, her gaze glued to the gun. If she watched it, perhaps it wouldn't go off. "There's nowhere to hide." If she kept talking, perhaps some miracle would occur.
The older woman smiled. It was the cold, cruel smile of a crocodile about to pronounce its meal delicious. "I have a boat," she said, "and a man to run it." She gave a rueful shrug. "He's not overly bright, but he can get me off this island." Her eyes were coldly triumphant. "I have a safe place to hide on Crete."
Stacia's breath grew so shallow,
her chest barely rose. Then something familiar touched her from behind. Andrew's hand, whose warm cautionary pressure on her waist warned her to be silent.
Maria Argolis backed toward a small door on the opposite wall. "Adio," she said softly. With a slight movement of her finger, she pressed the trigger.
A flash, a puff of smoke, and a flicker of white streaked across Stacia's vision, while at the same time, a sharp pain lanced her side. If there was more to it than that, Stacia didn't know what. All she could see now was an edging of moss growing in a crack between the stones on which she lay. Her shoulder ached as if wrenched from its socket and the blast echoed again and again in the space reserved for her brain.
Someone groaned, a door slammed shut, and a silence ensued, so complete, so unexpected, she was sure she was dead.
Chapter 12
Another groan, coinciding so completely with Stacia's pain, that she knew without doubt it was coming from her.
She was alive.
With intense concentration she managed to separate the solid green of the moss into individual filigreed bits. When she squinted, her vision cleared further. The whole uneven sweep of floor and one wall stretched out before her.
Her one arm lay in front of her face like the limb of a discarded doll, while the other lay pinned beneath her body, where it had turned completely numb. She tentatively wiggled the fingers of the hand she could see.
Another groan, then there came the sound of something scraping the floor behind her.
"Stacia," a voice said urgently. A warm hand touched her hip.
Blood raced to her head and cleared it.
"Andrew." Relief he was alive resonated through her bones.
"Thank God," Andrew said, his words muffled as though spoken through clenched teeth.
The length of his body came up against hers. She hadn't realized she was so cold until his warmth seared her back.
She longed to shut her eyes and revel in that warmth, to shut out this nightmare and return to their paradise on the rocks.
Lovers Never Lie Page 12
