Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

“Come in.”
    When Archer walked forward, other memories knifed through her. The controlled way he moved, the bleak clarity of his gray eyes beneath the sharp black arch of his eyebrows, the quickness of his hands as he shut the door—all of it reminded her too vividly of the night seven years ago when Len had almost died.
    And now Len was dead anyway.
    Slowly the rest of Archer’s appearance registered on Hannah; the fine lines at the corner of his eyes, the shadows brought by lack of sleep, the worn jeans, the slate-gray dress shirt with the cuffs rolled to his elbows, and what looked like coffee splattered across the front and forgotten.
    “You must be exhausted,” she said. “Coffee? A drink? Food?”
    Archer raked his fingers through his hair in a remembered gesture that sent odd echoes through Hannah. The beard was new, as were the scattered strands of brilliant silver that gleamed in his thick black hair. But his mouth was the same, thin and contained, always on guard against . . . everything.
    “Coffee sounds good,” he said. “Food, too. Whatever you would normally have now.”
    “But it’s not lunchtime where you came from.” She tried to think across time zones and the international date line. She couldn’t. “Is it?”
    White teeth gleamed in something less than a smile. “No, but don’t worry. I’ve learned to live wherever and whenever I am. Lunch is fine.”
    Hannah walked to the kitchen, aware every step of the way that a man was following her. A big, quiet-moving man with quick hands and cold eyes. She wondered if Archer ever really smiled. If he did, it never had happened when she was watching. But then, she had seen him only twice before. He hadn’t smiled the first time, at her wedding—she wouldn’t have, either, if she had known what lay ahead. Nor had he smiled when he had arrived at her door covered in blood and ordered her to pack.
    No smiles, yet he had been everything she needed to survive.
    Her hands fumbled as she reached into the refrigerator for fresh fruit and cheese and the roast beef Christian Flynn had brought to her. Every movement was an effort. She was caught between the nightmare of the past and the one in the present. But she wasn’t terrified anymore. Smiling or not, Archer was here, bringing with him a sense of safety that was dizzying.
    A chunk of cheddar banged against one of the metal racks and thumped to the floor. Silently she cursed her clumsiness and reached for the cheese.
    It wasn’t there. Archer had already picked it up. He had moved so quickly, so silently, she hadn’t even suspected he was that close to her. Her fingers shook as she teetered on the edge of her strength and self-control.
    “Unless you’re planning to eat off the floor,” he said, scooping up everything she held in her hands, “I’d better take this stuff.”
    “I’m all right. Just—”
    “Swaying like a tree in a hurricane,” he cut in impatiently. “Sit down before you fall down. When was the last time you ate?”
    She closed her eyes, then opened them instantly. She didn’t like the images that lurked in darkness, waiting to be played on the back of her eyelids: Len’s body, wasted legs trailing in the water like ribbons, one fist clenched around the murder weapon.
    Yet nobody had mentioned murder. Not when his body was found. Not afterward. They talked about the storm and freak accidents, and they watched her when they thought she wouldn’t notice.
    Hannah made a low sound and swayed again. Without warning, strong hands closed over her arms, supporting her before she even knew she was falling.
    “When was the last time you slept?” Archer asked, remembering what she had said on the phone. I’m getting . . . sleepy.
    “I’m fine,” she said, her jaw clenched.
    “And I’m the Easter Bunny. Sit down.”
    The back of a chair pushed against Hannah’s knees. Hard. They buckled and she sat. Archer shifted his hands and held her upright until he was sure that she could do the job herself. Only then did he turn back to the food he had put on the table when she went into her exhausted trance.
    “When was the last time you slept?” he asked. “And I mean real sleep, not catnaps.”
    “I haven’t slept, really slept, since I saw the broken oyster shell buried in Len’s chest.”

Four
    A rcher’s hands hesitated for an instant before he resumed making lunch. He had wondered how Len died. Now he knew, for all the good it would do Len or himself. He