Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

was a birthday present.”
    Jake closed his eyes and tried to calm the storm of adrenaline that had exploded through him when he heard the awful screaming.
    “Birthday present,” he said. Breath hissed through his teeth. “It’s a wonder Kyle survived your gratitude.”
    “Yeah. Sorry about waking you up.”
    “I was already awake and thinking about shaving for the first time in a month. Are you finished staring or were you planning to stuff money in my jockstrap?”
    Honor’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes narrowed. The door slammed in his face.
    Jake let out another hissing breath, turned away, and lowered the hand that he had kept out of her sight. The gun he held was dark and every bit as efficient as it looked. He figured it was a little soon in his relationship with the sexy Ms. Donovan to explain why a fishing guide needed a handful of matte-black death.
    Thank God for the Donovan temper. Making her mad enough to slam the door had been pure inspiration. It had been brought on by the knowledge that if he had to stash the gun out of sight in the cottage’s rain gutter, he was in for an hour of penance with the cleaning kit as soon as he retrieved the weapon.
    Not to mention the fact that a few more seconds of being admired by those wide, amber-green eyes of hers and he would have popped right out of his Jockey shorts.
    “Down, boy,” he muttered, walking quickly toward the little dock.
    Boy wasn’t having any of it. That was the problem. Boy had seen what he wanted—it had tangled chestnut hair, a sleep-softened mouth, and a hip-length green T-shirt that fit just enough to make him want to get inside it.
    “I don’t need this.”
    But he sure wanted it.
    “Of all the butt-dumb, ass-stupid . . . ouch!”
    Even as he cursed the cold, uneven rocks he hadn’t noticed when he sprinted barefoot up to the cottage, he welcomed the discomfort each step brought. It helped to get his mind off his crotch.
    On the way to the boat, he decided to hell with shaving. After four weeks the stubble had become beard-soft and didn’t itch anymore. Besides, winter was coming eventually and he had it on good authority that women hated face fur. They liked the clean—shaven pretty boys or the way—cool types who had to plan their dates two days in advance so they would have just the right amount of fuck-you bristle on their city cheeks.
    Muttering every step of the way, Jake tried to find the silver lining in his particular cloud. The best he could come up with was the fact that by now everyone watching the cabin would know the prey was up and about.
    The thought of Ellen getting a predawn wake-up call made him smile.
    Honor pulled herself together, dressed, and hurried down to the dock. It was still dark. The Tomorrow ’s lights were on, the engine was chuckling to itself like a tree full of ravens, and fishing gear was laid out. She looked at the rods standing upright in the rod holders next to the cabin door. Then she measured the big black dip net waiting in what Jake called a “rocket launcher” mounted on the roof. Exotic bits of fishing gear dangled from the rim of a white plastic bucket. Inside the bucket a package of frozen bait fish was slowly thawing.
    “For this I got up way before sunrise,” she said under her breath. “For this I should have my brain scanned.”
    With a feeling of doom, she stepped onto the dew-laden boat and opened the cabin door. The aroma of hot coffee curled around her like a caress. Jake was seated at the helm, holding a mug in his big hand.
    “I forgive you,” Honor said instantly, reaching for the mug.
    “For what?” he asked, startled.
    “Anything. Just hand over your coffee.”
    “Actually, it’s yours. Both sugar and cream.”
    “Heaven in a chipped mug. Gimme.”
    He gave her the coffee. She drank cautiously, persistently, then shuddered with the first, ecstatic wave of hot coffee lighting up her throat all the way to her belly.
    “Other than the alarm, how did you sleep?” he asked.
    “How do I look like I slept?”
    “Badly.”
    “Ouch. I thought all fishermen lied.”
    “Only about things that matter.”
    “Like fish?”
    “Yeah. Any more calls?”
    She shook her head, sipped again, then drank greedily despite the heat. “God, you make good coffee. How come some smart woman hasn’t married you, taken off your shoes and socks, and chained you to the kitchen stove?”
    “Because I can’t get pregnant.”
    “Ah, well, nothing is perfect. Except this