Pearl Cove (4 page)

Hey, its all right, he said. Donovans fight and then its over. Not like the Tang family,
where no one fights and everything festers.

Lianne thought of her fathers family and shook her head.

The difference between Chinese and American families wasnt what was bothering her. Its not
that.

Then what?

Archers eyes, she whispered. What happened before I knew him?

He worked for Uncle Sam in a lot of ugly places. Then he quit. Now hes Donovan
Internationals troubleshooter.

I think... Her voice died.

Kyle bent down, licked a faint shadow of syrup from one corner of her mouth, and settled
his big hand over their children. What do you think, sweetheart?

I think Archer has shot enough trouble in his life.

Hannah was staring at the computer when she heard a car pull up in front of the house.
Fear and anger battled within her. Anger because it might be Ian Chang, back to press his
offer of business partnership and a much more intimate relationship. Fear because she
didnt know who was out there.

With tight motions she closed Pearl Coves accounts and shut down the computer. It was
pointless to stare at the screen any more. She was so tired she was seeing double. She
hadnt slept in days, hadnt even dozed in the fifteen long hours since she had talked to
Archer Donovan. She kept hearing his voice, seeing the past....

She pushed away from the computer and headed for the living room. Before she got there, a
knock came from the front door. She froze. She knew the verandah floor near the front door
creaked, yet she hadnt heard footsteps. When she looked through one of the gauzy front
curtains, she saw the silhouette of a man. A big one. Her heart squeezed in fear.

Hannah? Its Archer Donovan.

Relief was so great it left her momentarily lightheaded. Until that instant she hadnt
realized just how much she was running on sheer nerve. Four days, five. She didnt know how
long it had been. She only knew that finally she could look at another human being and
trust him not to kill her.

And if Archers voice also made her cold with memories of the most brutal hours of her
life, she would just have to get over it. Swallowing hard, she gathered herself.

Just a moment, Hannah said.

Her voice was too hoarse, too strained, but it was the best she could do. She felt like a
doll stuffed with sand, and now the sand was running out at every seam. She fumbled with
the holt as she opened the door.

And then she could only stare. She had forgotten Archers dark male beauty, the
intelligence in his light, changeable eyes, his height and physical power, the sensual
promise of his mouth. Her husband had been a wild blond Viking. Archer was a dark angel
who made a woman want... everything.

Unnerved, she stepped back and said, Come in.

When Archer walked forward, other memories knifed through her. The controlled way he
moved, the bleak clarity of his gray eyes beneath the sharp black arch of his eyebrows,
the quickness of his hands as he shut the door all of it reminded her too vividly of the
night seven years ago when Len had almost died.

And now Len was dead anyway.

Slowly the rest of Archers appearance registered on Hannah; the fine lines at the corner
of his eyes, the shadows brought by lack of sleep, the worn jeans, the slate-gray dress
shirt with the cuffs rolled to his elbows, and what looked like coffee splattered across
the front and forgotten.

You must be exhausted, she said.

Coffee? A drink? Food?

Archer raked his fingers through his hair in a remembered gesture that sent odd echoes
through Hannah. The beard was new, as were the scattered strands of brilliant silver that
gleamed in his thick black hair. But his mouth was the same, thin and contained, always on
guard against... everything.

Coffee sounds good, he said. Food, too. Whatever you would normally have now.

But its not lunchtime where you came from. She tried to think across time zones and the
international date line. She couldnt. Is it?

White teeth gleamed in something less than a smile. No, but dont worry. Ive learned to
live wherever and whenever I am. Lunch is fine.

Hannah walked to the kitchen, aware every step of the way that a man was following her. A
big, quiet-moving man with quick hands and cold eyes. She wondered if Archer ever really
smiled. If he did, it never had happened when she was watching. But then, she had seen him
only twice before. He hadnt smiled the first time, at her wedding she wouldnt have,
either, if she had known what lay ahead. Nor had he smiled when he had arrived at her door
covered in blood and ordered her to pack.

No smiles, yet he had been everything she needed to survive.

Her hands fumbled as she reached into the refrigerator for fresh fruit and cheese and the
roast beef Christian Flynn had brought to her. Every movement was an effort. She was
caught between the nightmare of the past and the one in the present. But she wasnt
terrified anymore. Smiling or not, Archer was here, bringing with him a sense of safety
that was dizzying.

A chunk of cheddar banged against one of the metal racks and thumped to the floor.
Silently she cursed her clumsiness and reached for the cheese.

It wasnt there. Archer had already picked it up. He had moved so quickly, so silently, she
hadnt even suspected he was that close to her. Her fingers shook as she teetered on the
edge of her strength and self-control.

Unless youre planning to eat off the floor, he said, scooping up everything she held in
her hands, I d better take this stuff.

Im all right. Just-

Swaying like a tree in a hurricane, he cut in impatiently. Sit down before you fall down.
When was the last time you ate?

She closed her eyes, then opened them instantly. She didnt like the images that lurked in
darkness, waiting to be played on the back of her eyelids: Lens body, wasted legs trailing
in the water like ribbons, one fist clenched around the murder weapon.

Yet nobody had mentioned murder. Not when his body was found. Not afterward. They talked
about the storm and freak accidents, and they watched her when they thought she wouldnt
notice.

Hannah made a low sound and swayed again. Without warning strong hands closed over her
arms, supporting her before she even knew she was falling.

When was the last time you slept? Archer asked, remembering what she had said on the
phone. Im

getting... sleepy.

Im fine, she said, her jaw clenched.

And Im the Easter Bunny. Sit down.

The back of a chair pushed against Hannahs knees. Hard. They buckled and she sat. Archer
shifted his hands and held her upright until he was sure that she could do the job
herself. Only then did he turn back to the food he had put on the table when she went into
her exhausted trance.

When was the last time you slept? he asked. And I mean real sleep, not catnaps. I havent
slept, really slept, since I saw the broken oyster shell buried in Lens chest.

Archers hands hesitated for an instant before he resumed making lunch. He had wondered how
Len died. Now he knew, for all the good it would do Len or himself. He wanted to ask more
questions, to know the cause of the shattered darkness in Hannahs eyes, but he knew better
than to bring up the subject. She was on the edge of falling apart. He needed her strong.

What do you usually drink with lunch? he asked.

Iced tea.

He went back to the refrigerator, bypassed the bottles of beer, and grabbed a pitcher of
tea. A few minutes of rummaging in the cupboards produced glasses and plates. Silverware
was in a nearby drawer. Even the butter knives were lethally sharp. Lens touch, no doubt.
Years ago he had never been happy with less than three weapons strapped to various parts
of his body. If that wasnt enough, he had always had a gift for turning ordinary things
into deadly tools.

Archer wondered if an oyster shell had been one of them. He didnt ask. A sideways glance
told him Hannah was in one of her waking trances again, hanging on to consciousness by her
force of will. She had had that same will when he met her ten years ago a beautiful,
innocent teenager determined to escape from a stifling existence of living, working, and
sharing cooking pots with the monkey-eating Yanomami of Brazil.

The determination, the smoky-husky voice, and the indigo mystery of her eyes were the only
links Archer could see between the teenager of his memories and the shocky, exhausted
woman who was sitting at the table, swaying like grass in a long, slow wind.

Silently Archer sliced fruit, cheese, and beef that looked range fed rather than grain
pampered. Without asking her preference in mustard, ketchup, chutney, and the like, he
assembled sandwiches. As he put a plate in front of her, a corner of his mouth kicked up.
Lately it seemed his mission in life was to feed siblings.

Not that he felt brotherly about Hannah McGarry. He never had. Not at first glance. Not
now. It had been the final wedge driven between himself and the half brother he had
admired and befriended before he discovered the deep fracture lines in Lens soul.

Archer had been a lot younger then, able to give trust and love without understanding the
inevitable consequences if he chose wrong. His half brother had been a big part of the
painful, inevitable, and nearly lethal experience called growing up.

Start with this, Archer said, holding out a juicy, deep gold chunk of fresh pineapple to
Hannah.

She jerked as something brushed her mouth. What?

He slid the piece of fruit along her lower lip as though he was feeding his niece.
Automatically Hannah opened her mouth to catch a drop of juice. Before she realized what
had happened, the fruit was on her tongue. Her salivary glands squeezed painfully in
response to the tart-sweet taste.

Chew, he said. Even as sweet as pineapple is, it wont melt if all you do is suck on it.

She chewed. Gooseflesh rippled over her in pure pleasure at the taste.

Cold? Archer asked, looking at her tank top. Her nipples had risen to press hard and tight
against the thin cloth. He jerked his eyes back up to her face. Hannah, are you cold?

No. Youre shivering. It tasted like paradise. Hannahs simple abandonment to her senses
brought Archers sexuality to full alert. Irritated at his

unruly body, he sat and tucked his chair underneath the table so that he wouldnt shock her
by his outright lust.

He wasnt surprised by the urgency of his body; he had always responded to her this way.
But he was angry about it. He didnt want to need her this fast, this hard, this deep.
Wanting like that made a man lose control. An out-of-control man was in trouble up to his
stiff, stupid cock.

Eat, Archer said. Weve got a lot of ground to cover. We cant do it in the shape youre in
now.

The tone of his voice straightened Hannahs spine. She reached for her fork, only to send
it sliding and clattering across the table when her fingers slipped.

He grabbed the wayward silverware. He didnt remember her as being clumsy. He remembered
her as having an unconscious, bone-deep grace that made watching her entirely too hot an
experience for his comfort.

Sorry. Hannah drew a bracing breath. Im not usually so awkward.

Your nerves are shot. Your body isnt any better off. You need food and sleep. Archer
stabbed a piece of pineapple, slid it over her lower lip, and said, Try again.

This time when Hannah shivered with pleasure, he kept his eyes on the food.

After a few minutes, she picked up her sandwich and began nibbling on it. When she reached
for her glass of tea, he almost stopped her. He was pretty certain it would end up in her
lap. Or his. That thought kept him from interfering. A lap full of ice water was exactly
what he needed to get his mind off her nipples and quick tongue.

Cautiously Hannah lifted the glass with both hands. Her teeth clicked against the rim and
tea sloshed over her hand.

With a quick motion of her head, she sucked liquid off her skin before any could drip onto
the table. pure lust shot through Archer, increasing the force of his erection until he
could count his heartbeats in his own dick. Disgusted with himself, irritated with her for
no better reason than that she turned him on and never knew it, he ate his sandwich in
savage silence.

The silence stretched even after he was finished eating. He stared through the kitchen
window, across the sheltering verandah, out to the hammered-silver brilliance of the sea.
He didnt look back at Hannah until his arousal had subsided to an aching memory.

She was watching him with eyes the color of twilight, blue and purple, bruised, edging
into night. Thank you, she said. You were right. I needed food. I just didnt think of it.
Adrenaline. Her glossy brown eyebrows lifted.

It kills the appetite, Archer explained.

She looked at his plate. Nothing was left of the two sandwiches he had made for himself.
Ditto for the fruit and cheese. He had eaten everything but the pineapple spines and the
plate itself. She watched him slice more beef and cheese, slap mustard on bread, and throw
in some mango chutney for good measure.

Guess youre not on an adrenaline jag, she said.

Guess not. He took a big bite out of the third sandwich. The bread was white, stale, and
tasteless, but he didnt stop eating. He needed fuel. You ready to talk about it?

Hannah didnt want to. It showed in her face, in her eyes, a withdrawal like shutters
closing and bolts slamming home against the coming storm. She hugged herself, running her
hands restlessly up and down arms tanned golden by the sun.

I dont know where to begin, she said finally. Who found Len? I did. After the storm.

Where? At the beach. Was he still alive? No. Dead. Very, very dead. Cold. Like an oyster.
Was he stiff?

Hannah bit down hard on her lip, forcing all blood from it, leaving bright red marks
behind when she opened her mouth again to speak. No. His legs were like ribbons. On the
water. Floating and swaying ...

Archer saw the nerves quivering just beneath Hannahs skin and wanted to pull her into his
lap, rock her, hold her, just hold her until the horror went away. But that would be
stupid. There was a time and a place for sympathy. This wasnt it. A kind word would make
her collapse like a puppet with cut strings. That wouldnt help anyone.

He stood up, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and turned away from the table.
The house was airy, modest, and, like most things in Western Australia, slightly Asian in
flavor. Rattan furniture, colorful cushions, low tables. A hammock hung to catch the cross
breeze. The only unexpected touch was a wood sculpture the size of a violin. The sculpture
had the sinuous, sensual power of a wave on the point of breaking. Within the wave was a
shape that suggested a woman; the breaking of the wave would free her or destroy her.
Archer didnt know which. He only knew that the tension and sensuality of the piece were
riveting.

It was the last thing he needed to look at.

He turned his eyes to the filmy curtains and beyond, to the beautiful, brutal tropic world
that surrounded the house. Sky and land, heaven and hell combined, waiting just beyond the
verandahs silvery screens.

And silence behind him.

Were you alone when you found him? Archer asked curtly.

Hannah jumped, licked her dry lips, and took another drink of tea. Coco was with me. The
others were searching the mangrove side of the headland.

Coco?

Colette Dupres. Shes worked here for years.

Doing what?

Shes our best technician. The oysters she seeds have a seventy percent better survival
rate and more spherical pearls than anyones except Tom Nakamori.

A great asset.

Great ass, period, Hannah said without thinking.

Archers left eyebrow rose in surprise or amusement, Hannah couldnt tell which. Then she
replayed her own words in her mind, hearing them as he must have. She would have laughed
if she had the energy. But she didnt. Archer was going to get the truth from her, without
any frills or civilized flourishes. She simply didnt have the strength to be polite, much
less coy.

What did Coco think when she saw the oyster shell in Lens chest? Archer asked.

She flinched. Then she laughed.

Nerves? He knew that violent death affected people in many ways. Hysterical laughter was
one of them. Throwing up your toenails was another.

I dont know, Hannah said. She kept on saying, Perfect. So fucking perfect. Done off by
the shell he worships.

Done off?

French is Cocos native language. She still has trouble with English, especially when shes
upset. She meant done in.

Killed.

Killed or murdered? Theres a difference.

The police say Len was killed.

But you dont.

No, I dont. She tensed, waiting for him to ask why. He didnt, which surprised her into
relaxing just a bit.

How long had Len been dead when you found him? Archer asked, keeping his opinion on murder
to himself. He would have to examine Lens body before he decided whether Hannah was smart
or paranoid.

I dont know.

Who does?

You could try the Territorial Police in Broome, but its a waste of time. Theyre
understaffed, overworked, and had their own cyclone problems to deal with.

Where is Lens body?

Hannah drew a shaky breath. In Broome. The cremation is set for tomorrow. Early.

Archer glanced at his watch. He would have to move quickly if he wanted to see Len. Do you
miss him?

He shouldnt have asked. He had no right to the answer. But it was too late to call back
the words.

Abruptly Hannah laughed, then pressed her hands over her mouth to push the laughter back
down. It was impossible. The thought of missing what Len had become was so horrifyingly
absurd it was hysterical.

Archer watched Hannah struggle with her composure, watched her lose, and felt a chill in
his gut as her laughter rose and rose, only to crash into sudden silence. Len, what did
you do to your innocent, missionary-raised wife?

But that was the one question Archer wouldnt ask Hannah. He had no right to the answer. He
was part of whatever had happened to her.

I mourn the man I thought I married, she managed finally, breath breaking. I mourn the man
who could laugh. But that man died seven years ago. Im through mourning him. The man who
took his place, I cant mourn. He taught me too well.

What do you mean?

Len came to hate me as much as he loved pearls, and he loved pearls more than my parents
loved God. Len taught me not to love him, not to like him, not to care about him at all.
She looked up at Archer with eyes that were as bleak as his own. If that shocks you, Im
sorry.

It doesnt. I knew Len better than you did. Archer wanted to ask why Hannah had stayed with
Len, but he had no right to that answer, either. It had nothing to do with Lens death. And
that was the only reason Archer was here: his half brother

s death.

If he told himself that often enough, maybe the message would sink through his skull all
the way to his crotch.

Why do you think someone killed Len? Archer asked.

Pearls, she said simply.

Greed?

Greed. Money. Power. Hannah closed her eyes. Maybe he was killed because someone could, so
someone did.

Who do you think killed him?

Hannah went still. It was a question she had asked herself over and over again. She had no
answer but the one she gave Archer. Im only sure of two things. I didnt kill him. You
didnt kill him. After that, theres a whole bloody world of people who hated Len.

What makes you think I didnt kill him?

You had no reason.

Archer looked at her short, sun-streaked hair, spiked by careless combing and shining like
a dream. Her lashes were long, thick, the color of bittersweet chocolate, and her eyes
were an indescribable color from the dark end of the rainbow. Her lips were too pale, too
tight, yet nothing could hide the promise of sensuality in their full curves. As for the
rest... she was long, slender but for her breasts, even more elegant than his memories.

If he had known how it was going to turn out, he would have fought Len McGarry ten years
ago and let hell take the leftovers. But Hannah had watched Len with worshipful eyes, and
Archer had told himself that she was what Len needed, that her lush, sweet innocence would
heal the breaks in his half brothers soul.

Remembering his own naivete, Archer smiled. The curve of his lips was about as comforting
as a scythe. No reason to kill Len? You have no idea how wrong you are, Hannah.

Her breath stuck in her throat at what she saw in his face. At that moment he reminded her
chillingly of Len. Dangerous. Distant. Ruthless.

But in one thing youre right, Archer said. I didnt kill Len. Where were you when he died,
Mrs. McGarry?