Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

until you’re back from your emergency trip to Australia, whenever that might be.”
    “The emergency has moved to Seattle. Send April up in two minutes,” Archer added, not answering his assistant’s unspoken question about how long the emergency might last. “Coffee for three.”
    “She isn’t alone.”
    Archer didn’t move, but he changed. The easy humor was gone. In its place was cold readiness. “Who?”
    “A man called Ian Chang.”
    That answered one question: Archer now knew who Uncle Sam was backing in the pearl sweepstakes. What he didn’t know was why.
    “Observations?” Archer asked quietly.
    Mitchell wheeled back to face his boss. “If they’re friends, it’s not an easy relationship. Mr. Chang looked like he would rather have been somewhere else. Anywhere else. Ms. Joy could have etched glass with the edge of her tongue. Will you be needing the lawyers, or is Uncle Sam going to behave?”
    “I’ll buzz you if it gets sticky.”
    The phone rang. Mitchell picked it up. “Archer Donovan’s office.” He began reading the fax again. “I’m sorry, an emergency called him out of the office. Perhaps I could help you.”
    As Archer led Hannah through a door at the side of the office, she looked back over her shoulder at his assistant. Mitchell winked again. She winked back, drawing a wide smile from him.
    Archer’s office had a wall of windows overlooking Elliot Bay. A big green-and-white ferry was working its way across the wind-scoured water. Clouds revealed part of the Olympic Mountains and concealed the rest. The city gleamed white and shiny black in the aftermath of a cleansing rain.
    The office itself contained all the standard executive appointments—large polished desk set at right angles to the view, big leather chair, a grouping of sofas around a low table, a wet bar. Some of the touches weren’t standard. One of Susa’s powerful, compelling landscapes hung on the wall opposite the desk, where Archer could enjoy the painting every time he looked up from work. The yellows, oranges, reds, and brooding purple of the sunset painting were repeated by a trio of free-form glass sculptures that graced the low table in front of the couches.
    “Beautiful,” Hannah said, running her fingertips over glass. “Hot to the eyes, cool to the touch.”
    “I like the sculpture in your house better. Couldn’t stop touching it. Like you this morning.”
    Startled, she looked up at him. “Do you mean that?”
    “About touching you?”
    She smiled but shook her head. “No, the sculpture.”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank you. I threw away all the rest that I did, but I kept that one even though Len laughed at me.”
    “You created that?”
    She shrugged. “Created is a big word for a bad carving.”
    “Created is the right word for that sculpture.”
    For a moment she looked at him, measuring the truth of his words. “You mean it.”
    “Of course. Why are you surprised?”
    “Try shocked. Len couldn’t say enough bad things about my carvings.”
    I’m not Len. But the savage thought went no further than Archer’s mind. He accepted that Hannah saw Len every time she looked at his half brother. Nothing Archer did seemed to change that. Much of what he did made it worse. “Len was wrong about a lot of things.”
    Archer put his hand under her chin and kissed her slowly, thoroughly, trying not to think about how much longer she would want him. Lust was a hot, quick emotion. Love was hotter, and lasted as long as there was breath. That was how long he would want her. Thinking about the difference in their needs would only ruin whatever time they had together, so he put away that knowledge and concentrated on the woman in his arms.
    “No wonder Susa looked daggers at me when I told her to forget having you as a daughter-in-law,” he said, barely lifting his lips from Hannah’s long enough to get out the words. “She had you pegged for a fellow artist.”
    “Ruddy hell,” she muttered, embarrassed. “Your mother hangs in museums. I’ve nowhere near her talent.”
    “Bull dust.”
    She smiled, then laughed out loud and kissed him full on the mouth. “I don’t believe a word of it, but thank you. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one in the world who likes to pet wood.”
    “The only thing that feels as good beneath my hands as that sculpture is you.”
    Hannah’s breath shortened. She remembered waking up, being pulled over him, and his long fingers sinking into her hips.
    “Are