Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

me.” She smiled thinly. “Being smart doesn’t mean you don’t make mistakes. It just means you learn from them.”
    As Archer gestured the women ahead of him into the kitchen, he wondered what he would learn from the mistake he had made with Hannah. Then he saw her standing next to his parents, listening intently to something Susa was saying, holding Summer while the baby gnawed on the big blue diamond Hannah still wore. He went still at the happy family portrait. When his mother glanced up and saw him, she nodded as though he had said, What do you think, Mom? Is this one a keeper?
    If that wasn’t bad enough, his father had the same gleam in his eye that he did whenever he glanced from Lianne to Kyle, silently saying, Good job, son. This one will go the distance.
    But Hannah wouldn’t. Not with him. The sooner his parents knew, the less it would hurt when they found out. Like yanking a bandage off—a gasp, a burn, and then it was over and healing could begin.
    “There you are,” Don said to Archer. “I was just telling Hannah about Len’s mother. Figured she should know about us.”
    Archer barely managed not to say, Why? Instead, he gave his mother a sidelong glance.
    Susa smiled at him. “I know it continually surprises you, but your father and I both had lives before we met each other. Not nearly as good as the lives we had after we met, but lives just the same. Don was explaining to Hannah—so tactfully that the point was all but buried—that even at sixteen he knew the difference between lust and love. Len’s mother was cold and ruthless, but very sexy. Great material for a wild affair.”
    Archer reached for the bandage.
    And yanked.
    “Hannah doesn’t have any trouble grasping that principle,” he said neutrally. “She feels the same way about me. Great sex. No future, because I’m cold and ruthless. Like Len. So you can get that warm glow out of your eyes, Mom and Dad. She’s not going to make an honest man of me.”
    Silence spread through the room.
    Hannah flushed, then went pale except for a line of red high on both cheekbones. “Bastard.”
    “Notice she didn’t call me a liar,” he said to his parents.
    “Bloody bastard.”
    Archer gave her an ironic bow. “At your service. Quite literally.” He walked up to the icing bowl, ran his finger around the rim, and licked thoroughly. “Mmm. Your best yet, Kyle. Where’s the cake?”
    The condominium was so quiet that Hannah couldn’t use city noise as a reason for her insomnia. She rolled over, punched the pillow into a new shape, and closed her eyes. The soft silk she wore—one of Archer’s old shirts—slithered up her hips like a lover.
    At your service. Quite literally.
    Put that way, it sounded so cold. The fact that it was true made it worse. She would never forget the shock in Lianne’s eyes, in Faith’s eyes, and the way the two women had gone to stand on either side of Archer as though to defend him from an attack. He had smiled at them, the kind of tender smile he once had given to Hannah, and told them to relax, it was all right. Just because Hannah doesn’t want me as a husband is no reason to be hard on her. She’s not the first person to think I’m a ruthless son of a bitch. She won’t be the last.
    With that, Archer had led the conversation around to other topics—Faith’s newest jewelry designs, Jake’s negotiations for more Baltic amber, Lawe’s surprising decision to come home for a time, Justin’s unflagging love of wild country, and the end of the salmon-fishing season. Pearls hadn’t been mentioned. Neither had Len.
    By the end of the evening, it was as though Archer had never said anything about Hannah’s opinion of him. The Donovans talked and laughed with her, washed dishes and tickled the baby with her, and generally made her feel at home.
    Until she looked over and saw Archer watching her with icy eyes. No home there. No warmth. Just truth used against her like a sword.
    At your service.
    Heat snaked through her. She told herself it was anger. She had a right to it. He had embarrassed her in front of his family. He was exactly as she thought: cold and ruthless.
    So why did she see him every time she closed her eyes, hear him whispering as his mouth moved over her, need him until she wanted to curl into a ball and cry?
    There was no answer for her question but the twisting, gnawing ache that was both lust and something more dangerous, something she fled from even before she admitted to