Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

through the fairy dust without choking to death. Half an hour, right?”
    Honor nodded. “But wh—”
    The word ended in a startled sound when Jake brushed a kiss over her lips and followed it with a quick, secret caress from the tip of his tongue.
    “Jake!”
    “Truce, remember?”
    “That’s not my idea of a truce!”
    “You’re right.” He bent his head and did a thorough job of kissing her. She didn’t respond as he had hoped. On the other hand, she didn’t fight him. Reluctantly he lifted his head. “Better, but not nearly up to the previous mark. Good thing we have lots of time to work on the fine print in this truce of ours.”
    “But I didn’t say anything about kissing or—”
    “Don’t forget,” he interrupted, opening the back door. “Half an hour. Beginning now.”
    The good news was that no one was parked on the highway across from Jake’s driveway. The bad news was that the tire tracks in the mud didn’t belong to any vehicle he had ever owned. Nor did they look like they belonged to Ellen’s snappy little four-wheel-drive rental. These tires were seriously bald. It was a wonder the vehicle had made it up the driveway without sliding off into the forest.
    Jake turned the steering wheel sharply and brought the truck to a slithering stop so that it blocked the driveway as thoroughly as a metal cork. The cabin wasn’t in sight. Neither was anything else but mud and fir trees stirring in the rain-wet wind.
    With one hand Jake stuffed the truck keys into the pocket of his jeans. With the other he popped open the glove compartment, grabbed the gun, and shoved it through a loop on his belt at the small of his back. He had been told that some people found the feel of a gun reassuring. To him, the damn thing just felt cold.
    Cursing Kyle, ancient wars, and modern fairy dust, Jake eased out of the truck and into the forest. By the time he had gone fifty feet, water was trickling down his collar from the drippy, cold-fingered caress of fir boughs weighed down by rain and pushed by the wind. Water was also trickling down his chin and over his wrists. He ignored the irritation and concentrated on the forest, the uncertain footing, and the cabin that was beginning to condense from the gloom ahead of him.
    There was no sign of a vehicle. For a moment Jake thought hopefully that someone had just gotten lost, realized it, and slid on back to the highway. But something in the scene ahead didn’t fit with that cozy idea. Jake wasn’t going to move until he figured out what was wrong.
    Concealed in the dripping embrace of the forest, he waited while wind moaned high in the treetops, masking all noise except the slap and smash of waves at the base of the nearby cliffs. Suddenly a gust of wind pushed the back door open.
    Jake stared at the dark gap. It was possible he had forgotten to lock the door and had left it ajar for the wind to play with . . . . Possible, but not very damned likely.
    He drew the gun, took off the safety, and ghosted across the small clearing near the back of the cabin. A moment later he was in the door and making a rapid survey. Nothing showed over the gun barrel but two wood kitchen chairs, an electric stove, a sink, and a table covered with mail he hadn’t bothered to open.
    Wet footprints still glistened on the floorboards. Whoever was inside hadn’t been there long.
    Letting out his breath very slowly, Jake listened. Small noises came from the direction of the bedroom. He smiled. The bastard hadn’t finished yet.
    Ignoring the mud and forest litter stuck to his boots, Jake reached the bedroom in a series of smooth, soundless strides. A quick, thorough look told him there was only one prowler in the room. The man had his back to Jake and was searching through dresser drawers with impatient movements of his hands. Yet for all his hurry, he wasn’t making a mess.
    A pro. Not good news. But then, Jake hadn’t expected any.
    The prowler didn’t know anything had gone wrong until his right cheek was mashed into the cottage wall and a gun barrel was screwed beneath his chin in such a way that no matter what he did, he couldn’t see who was holding him. Nor could he get away from the gun by throwing himself to the side or going limp.
    As soon as the prowler realized that he was trapped, he went very still.
    “Finished yet?” Jake asked in Russian.
    The man sagged in relief and started cursing in the same language, asking what his partner was doing here—they were