"Leave?" she asked, not able to hide her disbelief.
Andrew turned to her, his eyes clear and very blue. "I'll go to the travel agent. You pack."
"Where are we going?"
His lips tightened. "We were shot at yesterday."
"I know." She glanced at his bandage. "That bullet was intended for me."
"Which is why I'm booking a flight to Athens," he said grimly.
Relief washed over her. They were going to Athens. Away from Crete. Away from Maria Argolis.
"I'll give you some money for a hotel there—"
"Me?" Her head began to spin. "What about you?"
He picked up his shirt from the floor. "I'll join you in a day or two."
"Where will you be until then?" She pulled her legs loose from the covers.
"I'll be tying up loose ends."
"There are no loose ends. Maria Argolis has your diamonds, but she got away. That's the end of it."
Instead of answering, he chose an orange from a bowl on the dresser. "Eat this," he said, tossing it to her.
She flung it back at him, refusing to be side-tracked.
"No telling when your next meal might be," he told her lightly, though his taut shoulders denied the lightness of his words.
"What do you intend to do?" she persisted.
He shrugged, didn't answer.
Realization and fear pressed in together, turning her skin clammy. "You're going after Maria," she whispered.
He pulled his shirt over his head and struggled through the neck opening.
She grabbed hold of his wrist. "If you're going, I'm coming too."
"Not this time," he said his eyes deadly serious.
"You're going to Athens. This doesn't concern you."
"Of course it concerns me. I brought those diamonds into Greece. I'm going to help you get them back."
"This isn't just about the diamonds."
"What then?"
"You were almost killed."
She felt suddenly breathless. Perhaps now he would say the words of love he hadn't yet spoken. She was ready now to hear them and say them in return.
"I was afraid—" he began.
Her heart soared. These were not words of love, but she could tell that he cared.
"I wish to hell you hadn't been on that island. We'd made our plan," he growled, "and that wasn't it."
Her heart stopped in mid-flight, plummeted straight back to earth.
"I couldn't let you go alone," she protested. "When I thought that's what you'd done, I had to follow."
"Which is why you're going to do exactly as I say now." Andrew stared at her with determined eyes. "I need to know you are safe. I want you to go to Athens."
"No," she said fiercely. Her fingers formed fists. She would never be safe if the man she loved was in danger. "I won't go without you," she added quietly, "especially as it's my fault Maria's got the diamonds."
"If you had been hurt, it would have been my fault." He gripped her shoulders. "Maria Argolis and her gang are deadly serious. I have one death on my hands already. I won't have another." He let go of her suddenly and Stacia jerked backward.
"It was your wife who died," she said numbly, wondering why it had taken her so long to figure that out. Perspiration formed between her shoulder blades and slid damply down her back.
"Yes," Andrew answered.
"What was her name?" she asked softly.
"Nancy," he replied.
"How did she die?" Stacia asked, bracing herself for the answer.
Andrew's eyes went blank, as though he were looking inward, then he shuddered and re-focused on Stacia's face. "Maria Argolis did it," he said, his expression turning to stone. "I knew there had to be someone else, that the fellow the police caught was too stupid to pull off such a theft on his own. But I didn't know who killed Nancy until I heard Maria talking in the fortress."
All sound had died except for the thumping of Stacia's heart, and it filled her ears until she heard nothing else. Heat pricked her body. Every nerve-ending pulled taut.
Andrew passed a hand over his brow then, as though his strength had left him, sat abruptly on the bed. Stacia touched his knee, but if he felt the pressure of her fingers, he gave no indication.
"When did this happen?" She didn't take away her hand. He needed her even though he made no sign.
"Eight years ago."
"That's a long time."
"Not long enough."
Stacia's chest tightened. He obviously loved Nancy as much now as he had when she was alive. "How?" she asked. Maybe talking about it would give him some release, would dispel the demons eating his soul.
"I had begun the Brokerage the year before," Andrew answered, "worked night and day to make ends meet. I cut corners, cut costs, but bought only the best gems." He stared down at Stacia's hand, didn't look into her eyes. "People began to notice my work, began to trust my word. They knew if they asked for a particular stone, I'd either have it or could get it for them."
"It became a point of pride to deliver what people wanted. I went abroad for my gems to Africa, India, and Australia." A yoke of sweat turned the neckline of his tee-shirt damp.
"And your wife?" Stacia asked, a chasm opening in her heart, the love inside disappearing from sight.
Pain savaged Andrew's eyes. "Her father was one of my best customers. I supplied the diamonds for the necklace he gave her on her twenty-first birthday. Went to the party to watch him present it to her...."
And fell in love, Stacia realized numbly. She stared at the sunlight shimmering in through the window, not wanting to hear how much he loved another woman.
"We got married two months later."
She glanced back at Andrew, found his face ashen.
"A year after that, she was dead."
She might be dead, but she was still loved. Stacia's heart ceased its wild racing, leaving nothing behind but a hollow echo where the pounding had been. The swish of the ceiling fan was the only audible sound.
It was revenge Andrew was after, as well as the diamonds. Revenge for his wife and the love he had lost.
Stacia felt as though her heart had been flung into a void. She would never be alive in the same way again. Would never laugh, never love, never lay her head on Andrew's chest and know when she was with him, what it was like to be home.
"It was my fault she died," Andrew continued, the pain in his voice penetrating her despair.
"How?" she asked again.
"I left her alone too much, for weeks at a time sometimes."
"You were building your business. You had to do what you did."
"That's what I told myself. I pretended it was for us, for our future together, for our children and a secure home. I didn't admit the reality to anyone."
"What reality?"
His eyes were black pits. "That I loved what I was doing, loved the adventure and danger, the wheeling and dealing, the high-flying life. And Nancy let me do it. She let me pretend." His shoulders sagged. "Because she loved me."
"Her death wasn't your fault."
"I was at a client's home when Maria and Kosta Argolis broke into our house." Lines scored Andrew's forehead, added age to his face. "My office at that time was in our home. I kept everything there. I stupidly thought it was safe." He swallowed hard and stared at his hands. "When I came home, I found her dead."
Stacia took his hand in hers, found it icy cold.
"Maria got away unseen. Kosta was captured. A neighbor had seen him leave and gave a good description to the police. They soon picked him up. But catching him didn't save Nancy." His eyes filled with rage. "Only I could have done that and I wasn't there."
Nothing she could say would make any difference. Nothing she could do would erase his guilt. No matter how much she loved him, he couldn't love her back. All she could do was stroke his hand, and that was as much to comfort herself as it was to comfort him.
"So you're going to Athens," Andrew finished, slowly extricating his fingers fr
om hers. The tenuous link between them broke with the movement.
Sorrow filled Stacia, for Andrew and his wife, but also for herself and her broken dreams.
She'd been right about love. It didn't keep you safe. She wrapped her arms around her chest, cold beyond shivering.
Chapter 14
She should be upstairs packing. If she was going to leave, she should just go, not wait for Andrew to come back from the travel agent with her ticket. He intended she go by plane this time, wanted her off this island as quickly as he could remove her. Wanted her out of his life.
She should want that, too. Stacia stared at the postcards in the rack in front of her, unable to keep her brain from playing back everything Andrew had said, everything he had done, how he had touched her, kissed her....
Fool! She riffled the cards impatiently, their pictures blurring from the tears in her eyes. It didn't help remembering how Andrew's lips had scorched her breasts, or feeling, still, his hardness inside her, full where she had been empty, joyous where she had been sad.
Her heart ached with remembering.
She pulled a postcard from the rack then put it back again unread. She touched her elbow and her fingers trembled. It was the last place Andrew had touched her. She could still feel his heat.
They had walked down to the lobby together, but he had left her there, cold and bereft, with money to pay their bill and instructions to pack her things. She couldn't go to Athens and leave Andrew to face the danger alone.
She shut her eyes. Despite the lobby's dim light, her pulse hammered relentlessly against her temples. A dull ache crawled up her back and the cuts on her legs burned. She felt like crying, but crying wouldn't make Andrew love her.
The realization hit her in a blinding flash. Whether Andrew loved her or not, she wasn't going to Athens. She straightened her shoulders. Andrew might not love her, but she loved him, and she was not going to Athens until she was sure he was safe.
Her mind made up, Stacia glanced toward the reception desk. The hotel owner's nephew appeared to be asleep. His chin nodded to his chest and a faint snore bubbled through his lips with the regularity of a ticking clock. The owner would be upset if he walked in now, as he had been yesterday when the maid, another relative, failed to bring his tea on time. Happily, the young girl had handled her uncle with the aplomb of a diplomat.
That same maid had been tidying Stacia's room the day before when she and Andrew had returned from Spinalonga Island. She had chatted to them with the vivacity of youth, spilling her family's secrets as airily as shaking out the blankets. Stacia bit her lip. She felt at home here, comfortable. Another reason she didn't want to go.
She would simply remind Andrew she was on vacation, and that she intended to see something of Crete before she left. She'd find a quiet cafe and write some postcards. There was nothing dangerous about that. She'd write one to Angela, and to her friends at the library, and one to old Mrs. Franklin who lived next door. And when Andrew had finished his search for his diamonds and Maria Argolis, when he came back unsuccessful, but safe and sound, that's when she'd leave.
Feeling slightly happier, Stacia reached out and chose another card. A quick glance, then another, then she peered at it more closely. The stone church on its front looked familiar. She was sure it was one she had seen before. Old stone, old style, a plain church for a devout people, a structure to stand the test of time, trouble and war.
She moved closer to the window, and held the card up to the light. She had seen this church before, and that twisted tree beside it, its trunk gnarled and bent from the force of the wind. It was the church in the picture on Mr. Stone's desk—Wilson's desk, according to Andrew. There had been a woman in that picture, a Greek woman standing next to a Greek church.
Maria Argolis, the woman Stacia had known first as Mary Argyle. No wonder she had seemed familiar. It hadn't been her resemblance to Grandmother Roberts at all. Thank heavens for that. It didn't seem nice, somehow, comparing her grandmother to a killer.
Maria and Wilson. Wilson and Maria. They were together, a team. Maria had been younger in the picture, as Wilson had been younger. Her hair had been black, and Wilson, now bald, had a full head of hair.
Stacia turned the postcard over. Eighteenth century church in Artemis, Crete the card said.
Her mouth went dry. She now knew where Maria Argolis must have gone. She'd run back to her own village like a fox to its lair, believing herself safe there, never guessing anyone would look.
A street map of Agios Nikolaos was pinned to the far wall, and next to it stretched a map of the island. Stacia moved toward the map, dizzying excitement racing through her. She forced herself to move slowly, was grateful when, gradually, a steadying calm descended.
Artemis was difficult to find amongst the hundreds of villages dotting the island, but at last she spotted it at the end of a long secondary road. It was situated in the middle of the mountain range that ran like a dragon's spine down the length of the island.
From a pocket below the map, Stacia extracted a folded tourist pamphlet. A map of the island was printed in bold black and white on the inside, the actual roads designated in various shades of grey depending on their quality. The road to Artemis was so faint, it was barely visible.
But there would be a bus to the village. Buses left Agios Nikolaos at every hour of the night and day. If Andrew needed his diamonds back, wanted revenge, they could get both by hopping on a bus.
* * *
Andrew held on to the travel agent's door for a second, so that when it closed it would close gently. He would like nothing better than to slam it shut, but until he found Maria Argolis, he'd hang on to his temper.
At least he had Stacia's ticket, although getting it had taken far longer than he'd expected. The clerk had mumbled something about tourist season and overbooking while the line-up in the office grew. It wasn't until Andrew threatened to charter a plane from a competitor that the clerk found a seat, miraculously for this very afternoon.
Now he had to get Stacia on it which given how she felt about leaving, promised to be more difficult than threatening a corporation.
When he'd told her to get packed, her mouth had tightened in mutiny. Packing, at least, shouldn't take her very long. He'd seen how she'd stuffed her clothes into her suitcase at the Chicago airport. Andrew glanced at his watch. Three o'clock already. The plane left at six. Lengthening his stride he hurried toward the hotel.
He came at it from the rear, dodging between the tables of the open air restaurants at the edge of the canal and casting a swift glance upward toward the fourth floor.
Stacia's balcony doors were closed. No clothes clung wetly to her railing, no half-finished drink sat on the metal table outside. Andrew heaved a sigh of relief. With any luck she'd have finished her packing, paid their bill with the money he had given her and was hopefully sitting in the hotel lobby awaiting his return. She might even have packed his things as he had given her a key to his room.
He'd get Andreas to meet her in Athens. No, not Andreas. His partner in past business dealings was too interested in women. He could be trusted with diamonds, but not with Stacia.
It would have to be Stavros, who wouldn't enjoy acting as guard dog. But he would do it if asked, for the man was more a good friend than an employee, had been with him on the day he found Nancy dead. Stavros would understand he had to keep Stacia safe.
Andrew walked around to the front of the building, and was momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun. He stepped off the narrow sidewalk to let a woman and her baby carriage pass, then hurried the few remaining yards to the hotel entrance.
He paused in the doorway to give his eyes time to adjust to the gloom of the lobby, then he glanced around the room. There were no bags at the reception desk, and no sign of Stacia.
She must still be packing. He strode toward the stairs. It was faster to walk up than to wait for the ancient elevator to creak its way down. Besides, he had to keep moving, was in no mood to stand
still, couldn't bear to count the separate dings as the elevator passed each floor and know precious seconds were ticking by while he did nothing.
As he climbed, a sharp ache hammered his temples and his wound hurt more than he liked to admit. Despite his discomfort, he took the stairs two at a time, was sucking in air by the time he pushed open the fourth floor door. He had to get back to his running. He hadn't done any on this trip. Although maybe it wasn't a lack of fitness causing him to lose his breath, but the apprehension invading his body at the thought of losing Stacia.
A friend had once told him to visualize what he wanted, had insisted that with enough concentration, everything he desired would come true. Andrew grinned as an image flashed of Stacia walking out of the sea naked, her brown hair falling in a stream down her back. He forced the image out of his mind. He didn't have time for fantasy now, didn't care if it worked. All he wanted was to see Stacia perched on the edge of her bed, with her suitcases next to her, packed and ready to go.
He knocked.
No answer. No soft voice suggested he enter. No quiet movement. Nothing. The pounding in his head grew fiercer. Andrew put out his hand and turned the knob.
Unlocked.
His breathing stopped. The memory swept over him of Nancy lying on the floor, dead in a pool of her own blood. His lips tightened, his hand lifted, and he turned the door handle, hoping he would never see such a thing again.
Stacia's clothes were still heaped across heaters and chairs. Her suitcase sat untouched on the floor of her closet. Her bathing suit still hung from the bathroom door, and her camera was perched on her bedside table. Even the book she'd been reading the day before had its book mark still placed neatly inside. Apparently no bent pages or broken spines were permissible for a librarian.
The only thing missing was Stacia.
Andrew whirled around and headed back down the hall. As he descended the staircase, a man and woman drew aside to let him pass, a young couple walking with their arms around each other, their faces flushed from the sun or the heat of their own passions. Andrew swallowed hard.
Lovers Never Lie Page 15