"But there are diamonds," he added. "My diamonds."
Chapter 10
Diamonds.
The word conjured up images of engagement rings and tiaras. Stacia snatched the sweater from Andrew's hands and moved dazedly toward the window, holding the sweater up to what remained of the light.
The baubles didn't look like diamonds. Sparkly, yes, but no more so than a piece of costume jewelry. They couldn't be diamonds. If they were, that meant.... Her pulse hammered a staccato beat against her temple and her mouth grew as dry as the air outside. She thrust the sweater back at Andrew with shaking hands.
If these were diamonds, she had carried them into the country. Stacia drew the back of her hand across her wet brow. No, not carried them. Smuggled them. The room began to swim.
"Sit down," Andrew cried, and pushed her to the bed.
They were stolen goods. She had smuggled stolen goods into the country. She opened her mouth to protest that it wasn't so then closed it again without saying a word. Black dots formed a wavy line in front of her eyes.
"Stacia. Stacia."
A pinpoint of light appeared at the end of a long tunnel, then grew larger, more distinct. A tender voice drew her to it. Something cool pressed her forehead. With relief, she leaned into it.
"It's all right," Andrew said.
It was his arm holding her waist, keeping her from falling.
"Take a deep breath," he instructed, "and put your head between your knees."
She took a breath as Andrew had suggested, but her head still spun like a merry-go-round.
Andrew's eyes, when she could focus, were dark with concern.
"I didn't steal your diamonds," she whispered, hoping he'd believe her. Why should he? She hadn't believed him.
"I know," he said gently, placing a finger on her lips. "Don't talk. Just rest."
She wrenched her lips away. "How do you know?" she asked.
"You got them from Wilson."
"Stone. His name was Stone." Her head felt as though it were going to float away from her shoulders. To steady herself, she focused on his eyes.
"Wilson," he countered flatly. "My most trusted employee." Andrew's mouth twisted. "He managed my brokerage in Chicago. He was in charge of all the shipments to New York and London."
"Brokerage?"
"Moore's Diamond Brokerage. I buy, sell, and trade."
It was difficult to concentrate when the line of Andrew's jaw led to the sensual curve of his lips, reminding Stacia of how they'd felt kissing her mouth, making her sickeningly aware of the turn of events.
"How did you know Wilson gave the diamonds to me?" she asked.
"I was watching his house. I was sure he'd stolen the diamonds but didn't know where he was sending them." He took her hand in his. "I saw you pick them up."
"You were the man in the car," Stacia replied slowly. At last she understood. Memory served up a quick image of the street, the car, and the battered baseball cap. She should have known him by his hat.
"I couldn't believe you had anything to do with it. You looked so young—" He drew a circle around the inside of her palm, "—so vulnerable. I was sure you had some other reason to be there, but when you came out of Wilson's house, you were holding a package."
"You followed me." She could scarcely breathe.
"I told you that at the cove."
"It didn't make sense then." Her body was numb. All feeling had fled and might never return. "At the airport in Chicago, you knew who I was."
"Not who, exactly. I didn't know your name then."
"The airplane. Athens." As the list grew, the hurt grew with it. "The theft of my purse." She stared up at him, her cheeks hot. "Was that your idea?"
"No." A swift grin flashed on his lips. "That was an unexpected bit of luck."
"Luck!" She sprang to her feet.
"I needed to know how much you knew, how much you were involved. I needed to stay close to you." He stood also.
He'd suspected her, had thought she was a thief. Even when they'd shared a room. Even when he had kissed her.
"Why didn't you just take the diamonds?" Rage shook her so fiercely the pain of his duplicity dulled.
He touched her shoulder with a hand of a stranger.
"It wasn't you I wanted to turn over to the police," he said bitterly. "It was Wilson and that son-of-a-bitch at the other end."
She noticed across a barrier of sound and touch, the pulse steadily throbbing at the base of his throat and the exhausted shadow around his eyes. A vise squeezed her heart and she turned away.
"But it was me you followed," she protested, close to tears. "Me you befriended."
"You could lead me to the rest of the thieves."
"It was me you made love to." She choked on the words. "You used me. Manipulated me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You lied to me."
"I told you my name. I couldn't tell you anything else."
"You didn't trust me."
"Did you trust me?"
She swallowed hard, remembered her fear and suspicions.
"Besides—" He released her suddenly. "I had to keep you safe."
"Safe!" she repeated disgustedly.
"If you were innocent, you were in danger." He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. "But it doesn't matter anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"It's over."
"Nothing's over. I haven't delivered the package yet."
"And you're not going to."
"Yes, I am."
"I won't let you."
"You can't stop me."
His gaze held hers, his expression unfathomable.
"I have to," she insisted.
"Why?" He said it patiently.
"Because I'm not a criminal." She tried to breathe naturally, to stop this dreadful sucking in of air. "Because you're after the person I'm supposed to deliver this to. I have to help. I owe you."
"This isn't your fault. I don't want you at risk."
She turned away, but his gaze warmed her back, insinuating her space and weakening her resolve. She stepped toward the window, away from him and his power.
"I told you before," she said, her throat tight. "My safety is not your concern."
She heard his sharp intake of breath and heard him move. At any moment she expected his hand to touch her shoulder. Instead, a knock sounded.
Andrew got to the door first, and flung it open so hard it crashed against the wall. It was no porter this time holding a message, not even a shy-faced maid. The much wrinkled face of the hotel owner's mother-in-law stared in through the doorway, her raven eyes bright against her brown skin. The only color on the unrelieved black of her person was the pink of her cheeks. With claw-like fingers, she held out a note to Stacia.
* * *
The taverna wasn't fancy, but Andrew wasn't in the mood for fancy. He wanted a place they could pretend to be tourists, one small enough for him to watch Stacia's back.
"Act naturally," he said gruffly. "If they're watching, and they probably are, we don't want them to know we're on to them."
The black smudges that were Stacia's eyes widened, but she nodded in agreement.
"We'll go in, have dinner—" He smiled at her reassuringly and wished for the millionth time that they were just as they pretended, a man and a woman going out for the evening, "—perhaps dance a little."
"Is this necessary?" she asked.
"Yes," he said firmly. He had tried in the hotel room to make her understand, had told her that for some, diamonds were worth the killing. He thought of Nancy and his palms grew clammy. What had happened to his wife could not happen again.
He placed his hand on Stacia's back and steered her toward a corner table, her body rigid beneath his fingers. Backs to the wall. Safer that way. She might not be happy with what he'd decided, but that was too damned bad.
"I'm glad you've decided to be sensible," he said. It was him, not her, who would meet Andropolous tomorrow.
"You didn't leave m
e any choice." She frowned at him through the glow of the candle on the table between them.
"No," he said repressively. He didn't want to go through the arguments again, was not willing to spend their few remaining hours together fighting.
"Tell me again why I can't go," she demanded.
"Andropolous won't be expecting me, might not know who I am." Even as Andrew said it, the possibility seemed remote. "I'll rent a boat and go over early, stake the place out." Perhaps going over the details one more time was good. It would let her feel involved without exposing her to danger. Earlier her eyes had taken on a stubborn look that frightened him.
"He said I was to meet him at the fortress on Spinalonga Island." She pronounced the Greek name haltingly. "It eems an isolated place to meet. Do you think he suspects we're on to him?" Her clear eyes demanded an honest answer.
He shrugged, no longer able to lie.
Her gaze narrowed. "You are taking the police?"
"And tell them what? That I'm after jewel thieves. I'm the one who has the diamonds." Diamonds Stacia had brought into the country illegally. "I have to go myself."
He had to go for Nancy, for Stacia too. "Besides, the police are useless." He stood. "Forget it for now. We're supposed to be having a good time."
He held out his hand. "Dance?"
For an instant she hesitated, then put her hand in his. He pulled her into his arms and it felt as though he'd come home. She intoxicated him, entranced him, filled him with desire, made him crave for this manhunt he'd embarked upon to be over.
Her breasts brushed his chest and he felt her nipples harden. With a cry, she drew back.
Stacia pushed against his arms. She could no longer dance with Andrew and hide how hurt she felt. So far the evening had passed in a tension-filled blur of food and wine, but she couldn't feel his body next to hers knowing she was just a pawn in his diamond game.
He had used her, manipulated her, and in the end on that rock, against her better judgment, against all that she knew or guessed, she had handed him her heart. She'd been wrong to do that. Safety didn't come in numbers, particularly didn't come in twos. If you wanted to be free from pain, you were best off alone.
Stacia fought back the tears that welled in her eyes, but they refused to go away, half blinding her with their moisture. Andrew suddenly released her hand. She stood motionless, bewildered, so engrossed in hiding her emotions, she'd been unaware the music had changed. Until now, rock tunes from another continent and an earlier decade had reverberated through the room. Now, in its place, came the insistent sound of Crete.
With a start, Stacia noticed that most of the tourists had left. With their leaving, an ancient energy had emerged. A power, a love of life, one so all encompassing it was embodied in the pulse of the music, the sensual gyration of hips, the ruby red of the wine, and the joyfully intense smiles of the Greek dancers around them.
Andrew held up his hands, palms toward her. Hypnotized, she raised her hands also. Their palms touched, yet didn't touch, were apart, yet together, more a connection of auras and a fusing of spirits than two people joined in dance.
She'd never danced like this before, as though her legs were controlled like some puppet on a string. Her feet had never been this sure of movement in the past, had never known so completely where to go. The music drove her before it, lifting her feet and her heart. It stirred her breast and loins, brought heat to her cheeks.
A current flowed in the space between her and Andrew, and brought with it a thread of joy demanding acknowledgement. She smiled at him, not wanting to, but unable to resist, and he returned her smile so warmly the pain in her heart receded to a dull ache in her chest.
Then the music quickened and the couples merged into two lines; one of women and one of men. Still, they didn't falter.
Andrew wove in and out on the periphery of her vision, his face, chest and legs blurred by the shadowy light and the fluid movements of the dancers. But his eyes met hers in a constant, steady gaze. He welded her to him in the weightless jubilation of the dance.
When the music finally ended, he was opposite her again, tall, solid and devastatingly desirable. He held out his hand and for a long moment she simply stared at it. But in the end she clenched her fist and walked away.
He caught up with her before she reached the door, his fingers touching her shoulder with the strength of steel.
Stacia shuddered, overwhelmed with longing and utter despair.
Chapter 11
Stacia noiselessly opened the door of her room and peered through the crack. There was no one in the hall beyond. She should be happy about that, but fear snaked down her spine.
She edged through the door, the soles of her running shoes squeaking on the hall's tiled floor. She held the plastic bag containing the package carefully, not wanting the paper inside to crackle. She had to convince Andrew to take her with him, something he would never do if she had the package on her. She would pretend all she carried was bread and cheese, something to eat after their meeting with Andropolous was over.
The package was the only weapon they had. If Andrew got into trouble, if he couldn't subdue Andropolous as he believed he could, she would offer the villain the diamonds and buy their safe passage back to Agios Nikolaos. Andrew would get what he wanted, would know who Andropolous really was... but he'd be safe, and that was all that mattered to her.
She paused in front of Andrew's door, suddenly afraid to knock. He wouldn't want to take her, but that was too damned bad. Andropolous played to win. Meeting him alone was crazy. If Andrew persisted in refusing to call the police, she'd leave him no choice but to use her as a back-up. All she had to do was convince him of that.
Stacia glanced at her watch. Seven o'clock. Andropolous's note had said to meet him at nine. Andrew had told her last night he intended to leave at eight, saying that would leave plenty of time to find a fisherman willing to boat him across the water separating Crete from Spinalonga Island, then wait like a Venetian taxi until he was done.
According to the guide book, the fortress itself was Venetian, an imposing stone structure that guarded the Mirabello Gulf. It also said that early in this century it had been used to house lepers. It seemed appropriate, somehow, that it was here they'd meet Andropolous, a lonely spot already resonant with misery and fear.
At least, she wouldn't be alone. Andrew would be there. Andropolous, too. Goose bumps rose on Stacia's arms.
Hastily, she tapped on Andrew's door. No answer. She tapped harder. Still no response. She laid her ear against the wood, but heard no sound within, no shower water running or rustling of clothes. Her heart skipped a beat. He must have left already, must have gone without her.
She turned and sped toward the stairs, taking them two at a time, her fingers trailing the railing, ready to clutch at it if she stumbled. She prayed that with movement her mind might stop its racing, stop visualizing the ways Andropolous might hurt her, and forget how Andrew already had.
She only slowed when she reached the lobby. She nodded sedately to Mr. Stefanos at the reception desk, but was careful not to look in his direction. This cutting off of other people was not what she'd intended for this trip, but it was necessary now if she wanted to avoid questions.
A brisk breeze blew in from the sea and up the narrow street to the hotel. When Stacia stepped outdoors, her shirt flattened against her chest. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to give herself warmth. If she went back for a sweater now, she might not find the courage to embark again.
The nearer she got to the marina, the more she wished she was anywhere else on earth. The ache in her chest had spread and left her numb. Better that way. It was easier to bear than being able to feel.
Not as many skiffs bobbed alongside the dock as she'd imagined there would be. Where was Andrew? Her fingers closed convulsively on the handle of her bag. Had he already gone? She should have realized from the fresh fish in the restaurants they had passed yesterday morning that the fishermen woul
d be up and out on the water before dawn.
Taking Andrew with them.
Had he lied to her? Had he been so determined she not come he'd given her the wrong time?
At the far end of the cement dock, one boat remained. It was bright blue, the color of the sea and the color of Andrew's eyes. Stiffening her resolve, she moved toward it. She would follow Andrew to the island and meet him there. It might be better that way. No convincing to be done.
The fisherman in the boat was short but broad-chested. The red scarf he wore jauntily around his neck relieved the unrelenting black of his attire.
Stacia approached him. She prayed he would think her merely eccentric, a crazy tourist with an unusual request for this time of the morning, not see her as a smuggler with a package full of diamonds.
Smiles. Gestures. Parakalo. Ne. Ochi. The extent of Stacia's linguistic fluency was reached within seconds. But in the end she settled in the bow of the fishing boat and moved with it as it chugged its way across the water. A long, narrow island loomed before her in the early morning translucence like a home for the Cyclopes.
The fortress grew larger as they drew near, towered over the bare land surrounding it in a threatening mound of grey stone. Windowless slits, like empty eye sockets, dotted the walls and stared down at her, seemed to be daring her to approach.
There was no sign of Andrew. His boat must be moored at a different cove than the one they aimed for. This cove was perfect with its clear water and sandy beach, unusual on this coastline of rocks and crevices. Only the fortress rising on the cliff beyond spoiled the view. The fortress and the terror it promised.
She could only imagine the man she had come to meet; swarthy and paunchy, strong and intimidating, or perhaps clean shaven and educated, someone with the brains and guts to pull off such a theft.
The skiff crunched against the cove's gravel bottom. Stacia glanced at her watch and frowned. Eight o'clock. It had taken longer than she had expected to get here. Andropolous could be here already, though there was no sign of him, either, no movement, no boat. With a tight-lipped smile, she thanked the fisherman and scanned the sea beyond his shoulder. There was still no sign of Andrew. He must be up at the fortress.
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