Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

shape and combination of smooth and rough surfaces. “The one I caught before it hit the floor.”
    “You have a good eye.”
    “You’re a good artist.”
    “Illustrator.”
    “Buttercup.”
    She shot him a sideways glance out of eyes that were nearly as golden as amber touched by slanting, late-afternoon sun.
    “Most people can’t tell one chunk of amber from another at a glance,” she said.
    “I suppose so.”
    “But you can.”
    Jake shrugged, hating to spoil the peace of the moment with evasions and half-truths. “Amber is an interest of mine. Has been since I was a kid.”
    “Really? Is that why you asked so many questions about the amber Kyle is supposed to have stolen?”
    Jake nodded, but he was cursing silently. Honor was too quick. The less he said right now, the better off he would be when she found out. On the other hand, it was getting tiresome to always teeter along the sharp edges of half-truths and lies, wondering when he was going to be pushed off and cut himself to the bone. If he had liked living that way, he and Ellen would still have the same boss.
    “What attracted you to amber when you were a kid?” Honor asked curiously.
    “I felt sorry for the flies stuck in the past. What are you drawing?”
    She could tell by looking at Jake that she wasn’t going to get anywhere if she pursued the subject of why a child would identify with insects trapped in amber. So she answered his question instead of asking another one of her own.
    “I’m drawing what Faith will sculpt. Kind of.”
    “Kind of?”
    Honor looked back at the sketch. “I mean, the piece won’t be a real sculpture, finished in three dimensions. More of a bas—relief.” She frowned at the paper and admitted, “Actually, I’m beginning to think it’s a mistake. I’m not getting there from here.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Without answering, she reached inside the loose pocket of her wind shell. When her hand came back out, a hunk of amber gleamed on her palm like every hope of sunlight and warmth ever dreamed by a cold, shivering man.
    Jake whistled softly. In the pure light, the amber showed its true worth. It was transparent but for a swirl of tiny bubbles and intriguing flecks of ebony. Polished on one side and delicately crazed on the other, the amber had a satin radiance that redefined the word golden.
    It burned.
    “Ardent stone,” he said softly.
    “What?”
    “That’s what amber means. Stone that burns. May I? I didn’t really get a chance to look at this piece before.”
    “Sure, but there aren’t any flies in it.”
    He didn’t say a word. He just held the amber between himself and the descending sun.
    Honor caught her breath at the sudden, incandescent beauty of the gem. It was as though she had never really seen it before. The random swirls suggested a man’s closely cropped hair and beard, and the ebony flecks evoked half-opened eyes as deep as the human soul . . . a man caught forever in amber, free only because he had no more to lose.
    “Don’t move!” she said urgently.
    Jake froze in the instant before he realized that there was nothing wrong. She flipped to a new page and began drawing with a speed as dazzling as the amber bathed in sunlight. He watched and held the stone so that its golden shadow fell onto the paper.
    A rod tip jerked, catching his eye.
    “Uh, Honor . . .”
    “Not yet. I’ve been trying to see that face ever since I was born.”
    From the corner of his eye Jake looked at the rod tip closest to him. It was moving up and down much faster and harder than the dodger could account for.
    “Honor . . .”
    She made a go-away noise and kept on drawing.
    The line did what it was designed to do. It popped out of the down-rigger clip and headed off at an angle.
    “Well, hell,” he muttered in disgust. “We can always have pizza tonight.”
    “There. Got it! Or most of it.” She looked up. “Pizza? I’d rather have salmon, if it’s all the same to you.”
    “So would I!”
    He bent, stuffed the amber back into her pocket, and yanked the rod out of the holder in one continuous motion. A quick upward jerk assured him that the fish was still on the line. The motion of the rod told him the fish was a salmon and it was well and truly hooked.
    “Here you go,” he said, handing the rod over to Honor and taking the sketch pad. “Reel in our dinner. I’ll handle the boat.”
    “But I can’t—I’ve never—” The rod leaped and quivered in her hands. “My