Lovers Never Lie (23 page)

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.

If anything happened to Stacia....

This time he let the door slam as he passed through it. The desk clerk jumped to his feet from a semi-doze.

"Room 412," Andrew demanded. "Miss Roberts. Have you seen her?"

The young man's brow furrowed.

Andrew longed to shake him.

"I saw her earlier," the spotted youth said, his lank hair flopping over one eye. "She went out."

"What do you mean
out?"
Andrew leaned across the desk. "Out where?"

"She said something about Artemis."

Andrew's self-control scattered and he grabbed the front of the clerk's cotton shirt.

"She... she wanted directions to the bus," the youth stammered hastily. "She said to tell you to wait for her."

Silently counting to ten, Andrew forced his fingers to release him. "What's Artemis?" he demanded.

"It's a small village in the mountains." The youth pointed toward the far wall. "It's on the map."

The village was a mere pin-prick compared to Agios Nikolaos, and Agios Nikolaos was not very big. Andrew turned back to the clerk. "What else did she say?"

The boy shrugged. "I told her if she wanted woven rugs there were better places to visit than Artemis."

"She wants woven rugs?"

"Why else would she go to the mountains?" The youth came out from behind his desk, picked up a smoldering cigarette butt from the dirt around a potted plant, and flicked it out the door.

Andrew's stomach lurched. Stacia couldn't go anywhere. Not with any safety. Then the hotel door flew open and suddenly she was there.

"Andrew," Stacia cried, unprepared for the thrill racing through her at the sight of him. "Thank goodness, you're back."

"Where have you been? You've got to get packed. Your flight leaves in a couple of hours."

"Forget the flight," she said impatiently. "I know where Maria Argolis is." She watched his face, wanted to see in him the excitement she already felt.

"What do you mean, you know?"

"She's in Artemis, a small village in the mountains."

"How the hell would you know that?"

She held up the postcard she'd found on the rack. "When I picked up the package at Wilson's house, I saw this same church, with Wilson and Maria standing in front of it, in a picture on Wilson's desk."

"That doesn't mean a thing."

His expression hadn't changed at all, hadn't taken on the excitement she had been anticipating.

"It means she's been there," Stacia insisted, "probably is from there."

"That's a big jump, Stacia."

"It's a place to start!"

He shook his head. "It's far more likely she's left the island altogether, gone to Cypress, Turkey, perhaps."

"Then why do you want to search for her here?"

"I have to make sure, have to pick up their trail."

"Well, I know she's in Artemis." Stacia suddenly felt more certain than ever.

"Woman's intuition?" he asked skeptically.

"She said she had a safe place to hide on Crete," Stacia reminded him icily. "I've been to the bus station, checked out the schedules—"

"This doesn't change anything, Stacia."

"Of course it does." She grabbed his arm, wanting to shake him. "We know where she is now."

"I've got your ticket to Athens and I want you on that plane."

"There's no way I'm going to Athens. Not now."

"Nothing has changed," he repeated. "Not as far as you're concerned."

"I found out where Maria is." Stacia's cheeks blazed with heat. "You're not going there without me."

"Who says I'm going there at all."

"Of course you're going."

"I'm not."

"I don't believe you," she cried. "This is the best lead you have. You won't just ignore it." She stood as tall as she was able. "And I have to go too. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know
where
to look."