Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

a fish.”
    “Considering my profession and all, you might want to rethink that description.”
    “You have a point.”
    “It’s on the business end of the hook. First lesson of fishing.”
    Ambushed by Jake’s slow, unexpected smile and deadpan humor, Honor laughed almost helplessly. Then she had to fight tears that were burning behind her eyes.
    In the past few weeks she had been through too many sleepless nights. That was why after only two minutes with Jake Mallory she felt like she had been hit by a truck. His particular combination of rough edges, male warmth, and wry intelligence would have appealed to her under any circumstances. Right now, when her defenses were down and her emotions were all over the place, he was lethally attractive to her.
    Bad choice of words, she thought. Really bad. If she started thinking about death she would cloud up and rain all over Kyle’s messy desk.
    Blinking hard, Honor stared through one of the cottage’s many small windows. Beyond the panes of glass, fir trees swept down rocky slopes to the cold blue-green waters of Puget Sound. Amber Beach was a strip of tawny sand ringed by dark rocks and stranded logs bleached pale by the sea. Kyle’s twenty-seven-foot powerboat gleamed whitely next to the floating dock he had built. He had named the boat Tomorrow , because he rarely had time to go fishing today.
    Now Honor was afraid he might never have time.
    She cleared her throat, rallied her thoughts, and said huskily, “The business end of a hook. Sharp. I’ll keep it in mind.”
    “Better in your mind than in your thumb. How soon can you get the license?”
    “Fishing?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Any time, I guess. Where do I get it?”
    “Anywhere they sell fishing gear.”
    “Fishing . . .” Slimy, slippery, smelly, disgusting fish. She sighed. “I can hardly wait.”
    Jake’s eyes narrowed until little more than gleaming slits of gray showed between black eyelashes. He didn’t know what he had expected of Kyle Donovan’s sister. He only knew that it wasn’t Honor.
    “You should work on your enthusiasm,” he said.
    “I’ve had a rough month, as you probably know if you read the newspapers.”
    “Losing a husband—” Jake began, as though he didn’t know who Honor was.
    “Brother,” she corrected.
    “Brother, huh?”
    “And he’s not lost. Not really.”
    “A brother who isn’t lost, not really. Is that why the police are expecting him to turn up here?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Jake shrugged and thought fast. It was something he was good at. Most survivors were. His first thought wasn’t comforting: if the lady with the sad, sexy mouth, stubborn chin, and baggy black sweat suit hadn’t noticed the plainclothes cop hanging around the turnoff to the cottage, she was either too stupid or too innocent for whatever game Kyle was playing.
    Or had been playing. Missing could be another way of saying dead.
    “The name on the mailbox is Kyle Donovan,” Jake said. “He’s the one who has gone missing, right?”
    Honor nodded. The motion sent sunlight gliding through her short chestnut hair. Her unusual amber-green eyes gleamed with the same tears Jake had heard in her voice. He shook his head slightly. She looked much too vulnerable to be the sister of a liar, a thief, and a murderer.
    But then, life had taught Jake that looks were a lousy index of character. Actions were what counted. Honor was a Donovan aiding and abetting another Donovan. She might look as sweet as a Girl Scout selling cookies, but when she advertised for a fishing guide, she had declared her entry into an international treasure hunt whose only rule was winner take all.
    Jake intended to be the winner.
    “You can tell me all about your problems while you show me the boat,” he said.
    “That’s not necessary. I’m looking for a fishing guide, not a father confessor.”
    “All part of the service,” he said, turning away. “Like bartending.”
    “Don’t you want to discuss salary?”
    “A hundred dollars a day.”
    “That’s not a discussion.”
    He turned back toward her. “Two hundred.”
    “A hundred it is.”
    “Sold. Let’s go look at the boat.”
    Wondering if she had made a mistake, Honor shoved back from her brother’s desk. The sudden movement jarred one of the many small cardboard boxes scattered across the surface. One box skidded over papers and fell off the edge. A hunk of rich, transparent yellow leaped out of the cardboard, heading for a crash landing