Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

really meant it.”
    “Wrong.”
    “Okay.”
    Just like that, Jake went back to setting up the fishing gear. After a few minutes he started whistling. The sweet clarity of the sound reminded Honor of a nightingale at moonrise. It was startling to hear something so beautiful coming from the lips of such a hard-looking man.
    Then Honor realized there was something else about Jake that was surprising. If he had been one of her brothers, she would have been in for a battle of wills over the issue of learning or not learning to fish. But Jake not only accepted her decision without a fight, he didn’t sulk.
    Very quickly there were two fishing lines in the water, Jake was in position at the aft station, and they were creeping past the cliff at a pace only slightly faster than that of grass growing.
    Jake looked up, eyes narrowed against the glare of the descending sun. The Zodiac had taken up a position a hundred feet out to sea, paralleling the Tomorrow . The Bayliner with Ellen aboard was even farther out. No other boat was within sight. Either Snake Eyes had gone home or he was off the scope somewhere.
    Ignoring the escort, Jake looked back at the arch of the fishing rods and the subtle, hypnotic dip and sway of the rod tips as each responded to its dodger.
    “Now what?” Honor asked.
    “We fish.”
    “Goody. Like watching paint dry, only less exciting.”
    “You’ll change your mind as soon as you feel a salmon on the other end of the line.”
    “Be still my beating heart.”
    Shaking his head, Jake looked at the shoreline. There were no houses or cabins to interrupt the wildness of the place; there were only stone cliffs, wind-twisted fir trees, and a clean, cloud-layered sky. Between the clouds, random, slanting shafts of sun spotlighted rocks and water. A bald eagle soared overhead and the boat swayed gently beneath his feet. For the first time in weeks, a sense of peace curled through Jake.
    Honor looked at the softened line of his mouth and knew she was getting in over her head. Just seeing his pleasure made her want to smile and hold out her arms.
    Stop looking at him, she warned herself. Do something useful. Anything. Just stop thinking about Jake Mallory.
    But as soon as she did, thoughts of Kyle and amber and death haunted her. Now she just wanted to crawl into Jake’s arms and be comforted.
    Merde, she said silently, disgusted with herself.
    She went back into the cabin, pulled a sketch pad and pencil out of her backpack, and flipped to the design that was still eluding her. After a few minutes she took a box out of the backpack, opened it carefully, and stared at the amber inside.
    No inspiration came.
    Gently she picked up the amber, cradling it in her hand, turning it slowly. But no matter how hard she stared at the tantalizing lines, creative lightning didn’t strike. Maybe direct sunlight would help.
    She tucked the amber into the pocket of her wind shell, grabbed pad and pencil, and went outside. She discovered that the engine cover made a surprisingly comfortable seat. She settled in with her back against the stern. Without taking out the amber, she began trying variations on her design’s basic theme, working from memory alone.
    Jake stood in the doorway, driving the boat from the aft station while watching the fish finder in the front of the cabin.
    Soon a rill of nightingalelike notes rose into the quiet afternoon. Though there was no obvious melody in his whistling, Honor found it both relaxing and mentally stimulating, rather like listening to Gregorian chants. Her pencil flew over one page, then another, then another, trying out various ways of balancing line and shape, evocation and representation, creating the blend of flow and meaning that made her creations unique.
    Belatedly she realized that the whistling had stopped and Jake was watching her. She looked up.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to distract you.”
    “You didn’t. The whistling actually helped me to concentrate. I only noticed when you stopped.”
    It must be something in the Donovan genes, Jake thought wryly. Kyle had enjoyed “dueling whistles”—Kyle with his pennywhistle and Jake with only his lips.
    “What are you working on?” he asked. “Or is asking like peeking over your shoulder?”
    She smiled. “It’s not peeking if I show you.” She turned the pad so that it was right side up for Jake.
    “That’s the piece of amber you had at the cottage, isn’t it?” he said, recognizing the