Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

seiner spoke enough English in any case. Or was it Russian they didn’t speak and the seiner’s radar that was spotty?”
    Conroy’s sarcastic tone said plainly that he wasn’t impressed by the explanations he had heard.
    “No harm, no foul,” Jake said.
    “That was too close.”
    “No argument here.”
    “Maybe you should stay off the water for a while.”
    “Officially?”
    “Since when has common sense been official?” Conroy shot back.
    Jake laughed and signed off the air. Before he could hang up the microphone, another call came in on the hailing frequency. He listened to the request, switched channels, and looked at Honor before he turned on the microphone.
    “Are you okay?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    “You’re sure?”
    “A few bruises on my rear end. No big deal.”
    He smiled slowly, relief and something more, something hotter.
    “Anything that happens to your rear end is a big deal as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “You fit like you were made just for me.”
    “Stop talking about—”
    A burst from the radio cut across her words. “Jake, it is Petyr. Profound apologies, my friend. Are you me listening? Ah, excuse please. Excitement too much. Are you hearing me?”
    Jake looked at the microphone as though it had just bitten him. Of all the bad news he had heard since Kyle disappeared, Petyr Resnikov could easily be the worst.
    “I’m hearing you,” Jake said into the microphone. “Which boat are you aboard?”
    “The freighter. The captain is quite angry, but you know how silly seafaring peasants are. He insists it was your fault even though his radar is, shall I say, inconsistent?”
    “So I was told. What are you doing in this half of the world?” Jake asked bluntly.
    Laughter came out of the speaker. “Ah, Jacob. You have not changed.”
    “Have you?”
    “Cheerfully, not a whittle. If you will come on board as soon as we dock, you and I may toast one another with some of Russia’s best vodka.”
    Jake had no intention of getting aboard anything with Petyr Resnikov until he knew who was paying the Russian.
    “Not this time,” Jake said easily. “I’m doing something else this afternoon.”
    “But of course. Bring the beautiful, artistic Miss Donovan with you. If she is as charming as the brother Kyle, she will be a glowing companion.”
    Jake glanced toward Honor. At the moment she looked more rattled than charming.
    “Some other time,” he said into the radio.
    Like never. He had no intention of letting Honor within a hundred yards of the elegant, rapierlike Russian.
    “Ah, Jacob, you sadden me,” Resnikov said calmly. “May I insist? For—how do you say it?—reason of older times?”
    The gentle tones didn’t mislead Jake. He had just been given an invitation he shouldn’t refuse.
    “Meet me at the Chowder Keg in two hours,” Jake said.

15
    S ILENTLY JAKE TURNED off the ignition of his truck. He looked at Honor. She had changed into fitted black jeans, a bronze turtleneck sweater, and a black linen jacket. She wore a hand-wrought gold necklace. Its pendant was a stylized, rock crystal and jet spiral in the ancient yin and yang design. He knew without asking that she had designed it.
    He looked across the sidewalk at the weathered, windowless front door that belonged to the Chowder Keg and wished he had chosen one of the town’s more upscale diners. It had been years since he had braved the smoke and sour smell of grease in order to eat what was arguably the best clam chowder in the Pacific Northwest. He had forgotten just how disreputable the place looked. And was.
    Honor reached for the door handle on her side. Jake’s long arm shot across her and held the door closed. She yanked her hand out from under his as though she had been burned.
    “Look,” he said. “This isn’t your kind of place. Too many guys from the fish boats.”
    “You don’t know me well enough to know what kind of place is or isn’t my kind.”
    His hand tightened over hers. He gave her a look that said he was remembering everything about last night.
    “Honey, I know you from your forehead to the soles of your feet and all the sweet places in between. The Chowder Keg is hard, dirty, ratty, and rough. You aren’t.”
    Honor knew she was probably blushing. She hoped the color would be written off as anger.
    “You’re wasting time,” she said, refusing to look at Jake. “I’m going inside with you.”
    “Why?”
    “Guess,” she said through her teeth.
    “You