Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

Archer.
    “Okay,” Jake said. “Ready for lesson number one?”
    Honor nodded.
    “The first thing you do after coming on board is lift the engine cover and check the engine.”
    “That little compartment?” she asked, pointing to the stern.
    “No. This big compartment.”
    He pointed to the squared-off hump that took up more than half of the standing room in the open stern of the boat.
    “You opened the little compartment first,” Honor said. “Then you opened the door to the cabin.”
    “I wanted to make sure you were out of the way before I checked the engine.”
    “Why?”
    “The cover eats toes.”
    “Would it settle for a cheese sandwich?”
    He tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. She was a very female, even more unsquelchable version of Kyle.
    Kyle, who could charm rust off steel.
    “Stand over here,” Jake said, positioning Honor to his right, away from the dock. “Watch your toes.”
    He bent, hooked the fingers of his left hand in the engine cover, and lifted it back on its hinges. The compartment yawned open at the stern. With the lid tilted back vertically, there was barely enough room around the edge of the hole to stand without falling in. There was no room for a man to slide between the cabin door and the cover.
    Honor whistled when she saw the gleaming black beauty that filled the compartment. “That’s an engine!”
    “Four hundred and fifty-four cubic inches,” he agreed. “Goes like bloody blue blazes, if you don’t mind buying gas.”
    “No free lunch?”
    “Not even a snack.”
    He pulled out the dipstick, checked it, and held it out for her to inspect.
    “Looks like oil to me,” she said.
    “Good news. Salt water in the oil is like sugar in the gas tank. Bad luck. So the first thing you do when you get on board is check to make sure nothing has seeped in since you docked.”
    He replaced the dipstick. Then he squatted easily on his heels and began a thorough inspection of various hoses, clamps, and fittings.
    “What are you looking for?” she asked.
    “Careless maintenance.”
    “Kyle is quick-tempered but he isn’t careless.”
    Jake grunted and kept right on looking. In the short time he had known Kyle, he hadn’t appeared to be careless. But then, he hadn’t appeared to be a crook, either. When it came to Kyle Donovan, Jake wasn’t counting on one damned thing he hadn’t held in his hands and examined with a wary eye.
    “Shipshape and looking good,” he said, standing again. “Watch your toes. This cover is heavy enough to take them right off.”
    Honor crowded back against the side of the boat as Jake lowered the engine cover back down. There was no latch to keep it closed and no need of one. The weight of the cover alone was enough to hold it in place.
    “What next?” she asked.
    “Blower. Go in and sit to the left of the driver’s seat.”
    “Driver? Aren’t boat folks called captains or pilots or something important?”
    “Depends. Personally, I drive boats and don’t talk any more nautical than I have to.”
    Honor stepped down into the cabin, walked up the short, narrow aisle, and climbed up to a bench seat that looked forward over the bow. Unlike a car, the steering wheel of the boat was on the right-hand side. The “windshield” was three separate windows with a steep inward slant from top to bottom.
    After a moment Jake came and stood beside her seat. He filled the narrow aisle. Every breath she drew in smelled of soap and heat and something indefinably male. His black beard was either new or very closely cropped. His skin was clean. His hair was a thick, gleaming black pelt that was combed away from his face. His mustache was slightly longer than the rest of his beard. It emphasized the crisp line of his mouth.
    She was tempted to trace the sharp peaks of his upper lip and the promising curve of his lower lip. The thought startled her even as it intrigued her. She hadn’t felt such an intense feminine curiosity about a man since puberty.
    “This is the blower control,” he said.
    Reluctantly she looked at the console in front of the steering wheel. He was pointing to one in a row of black rocker switches.
    “Blower control,” she repeated.
    “The blower sucks air out of the engine compartment. Never start this boat until the blower has run for several minutes.”
    “Why?”
    “Gas fumes. If they’ve built up and you hit the ignition switch, the explosion could put you in near-earth orbit.”
    Her eyes widened. “Bad