Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

passport lapse.
    “Are you at the Donovan family suite in Seattle?” the man asked.
    “Yes.”
    “A car will pick you up in half an hour. A rental car has been reserved in Broome. Will there be anything else?”
    “Not at the moment. Good work.”
    “That’s what you pay me for, mate,” the man said, allowing his native Australia to color his voice for the first time.
    Archer hit the disconnect and headed for the door that led to the family areas of the Donovan suites. Kyle and Lianne were in town to celebrate Donald Donovan’s birthday. Jake and Honor were due in this afternoon. Archer regretted missing his sister and her husband, but not as much as he regretted having to tell The Donovan that Len McGarry was dead. Happy Birthday, Dad. And by the way, the son who hated you is dead.
    Grim-faced, Archer started knocking on the door to Kyle’s suite. Moments later, it opened. The person who opened the door wasn’t Kyle, who wouldn’t get out of bed before nine o’clock for anything but a dawn salmon-fishing raid. His wife, however, didn’t need a kick-start to get going. Mussed with sleep, wearing a navy man’s T-shirt that came to her knees, six months pregnant with twins, looking like a grumpy Munchkin, Lianne stood in the open door. One look at Archer’s face had her wide-awake.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked quickly. “Is—”
    “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he cut in quickly. “Everyone you love is just fine. Get your husband’s lazy ass out of bed. I need him.”
    “It’s four-fifteen!”
    “I know what time it is. Get Kyle or let me do it.” With an effort, Archer gentled his voice. “It’s all right, Lianne. I just need his computer magic right now. I’ll be in the kitchen making coffee. Or do you want me to wrestle him out of bed for you?”
    “Any bed-wrestling Kyle does will be with me. Make enough coffee for three.”
    The door closed before Archer could thank his sister-in-law, or even pat the taut mound of her stomach where another generation of Donovans was doing lazy backflips.
    By the time Archer had coffee and Canadian bacon made, Kyle wandered into the kitchen wearing navy shorts and a hairy chest. Archer handed his youngest brother a mug of well-creamed coffee and turned back to the pancakes that were just beginning to firm on the griddle. With Kyle, there was no point in trying to talk until the first cup of coffee—and sometimes the second or third—had burned through the morning fog that passed for his brain.
    Lianne was more alert. She was still wearing Kyle’s T-shirt, the one that celebrated the hazards of men who went fly-fishing naked. She pushed long, black hair out of her face, poured her own coffee, sugared it, and scooted in next to Kyle in the breakfast nook without saying a word to her husband. Early in their relationship, she had decided that there was only one thing Kyle was good for in the first few minutes after waking up, and she didn’t need a witness for that. Sipping coffee, she looked at Seattle’s glittering lights spread against the utter black of a November morning.
    Kyle took his second cup without cream, drank it down, shuddered, and held out his cup for more without looking at Archer. Halfway into the third cup, he raked his fingers through his blond hair, straightened, and clicked into focus.
    “Where’s the fire?” he asked irritably.
    “If there was a fire, you’d be toast by now,” Archer said.
    “Yeahyeahyeah. This better be good.”
    “A half brother you never knew just died.” As Archer spoke, he flipped pancakes onto a warm plate.
    Kyle’s green-and-gold eyes narrowed to slits. It took him less than two heartbeats to realize that his brother was serious. “Jesus.”
    “I doubt that religion had anything to do with it. Len McGarry wasn’t a churchgoing man.” Archer put the pancake plate in the oven and poured more batter onto the griddle.
    “Half brother. Holy shit.” Kyle looked into his coffee and took a slow, deep breath. “Dad or Mom?”
    “Dad. Before he met Mom.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Long story. I don’t have time for it and it doesn’t matter now. Just don’t say anything to The Donovan or Susa,” Archer added, using his parents’ nicknames. “I’ll tell Dad when I know more. He can tell Mom whatever he wants.”
    “Was The Donovan married before?” Lianne asked.
    “No.”
    She winced. “I hope being raised a bastard was easier on your half brother than it was on