Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

glanced up and mentally began revising his phone summary for Sam Chang. “Why?”
    “Yours not to reason why,” Barton retorted. “Just make bloody sure that if Donovan goes tits up, you don’t have any part in it. If your Daddy doesn’t like the good word, tell him to call my boss. She’ll tell him just what I’m telling you. Lay off Donovan until you hear otherwise.” Black eyes glanced at Flynn. “Same goes.”
    Flynn shrugged. “I don’t take my orders from a Yank.”
    “Your country takes loans, lots of them, in U.S. dollars. Would you like to be the one to explain to your finance minister that you personally fucked up some multibillion-dollar development loans because McGarry’s widow liked Donovan’s cock better than yours?”
    Flynn’s head snapped up. “So Donovan is working for you.”
    Barton’s laugh was as cold as his eyes. “Not yet, but we’re giving him rope and lighting candles in hell. The instant he screws up, we’ll be there. And he’ll be ours.”
    “What about Hannah McGarry?” Chang asked.
    “What about her?” Barton retorted.
    “Is she off limits, too?”
    “Nothing was said about her.”
    Chang flicked a prawn into his mouth, eating it in the Chinese manner—head, shell, and all. He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the intense flavor of the shell and the succulence of the flesh. “Ms. McGarry is the owner of record of a very special, very valuable piece of the pearl trade.”
    “Too bad Donovan showed up,” Barton said cheerfully. “She isn’t likely to make an alliance with either of you now.”
    Neither Chang nor Flynn looked at each other, but each was thinking the same thing: Barton didn’t know that Donovan was half owner of Pearl Cove.
    And Hannah McGarry had just been thrown to the wolves.
    Barton stood up, tossed some Australian money on the table, and walked out. Every step of the way he cursed April Joy for her latest intricate game. It wasn’t the first time he had cursed her. It wouldn’t be the last.
    The hell of it was, she was right. Getting a handle on talent like Archer Donovan was worth bending a few rules.
    Red dirt flew by on either side of the road, which was also red dirt. Low, ramshackle buildings circled Broome and crouched rather drunkenly along the waterfront. Many of the buildings were remodeled pearling sheds. New buildings stuck out like castles in a shantytown. These were the small hotels and restaurants, stores and bars that had been built recently with the tropical tourist in mind—potted palms, French doors, bamboo or rattan furniture, breezy rooms, lots of shade, and a cross between rustic frontier and clean-lined Asian decor.
    The airport wasn’t one of the castles.
    Like the World War II Quonset hut that served as a terminal, the airport parking lot was unadorned and unshaded. It sucked in heat and held it, returning it redoubled to anyone unlucky enough to stand on the sun-softened surface. Even through the mercury-colored heat haze, sunlight was a staggering burden over land and man alike.
    While Archer locked the car, Hannah looked around the parking lot. Though Archer said nothing, he was feeling every bit of the temperature difference between Seattle and Broome. Sweat gleamed on his face, his arms, his legs. His tank top and shorts were a wet second skin. He couldn’t have dripped more if he had just walked out of the shower.
    “Is this where you tell me why we’re in Broome?” Hannah asked.
    “No.”
    She lifted her eyebrows, shifted the airy straw hat that shaded her head, and waited.
    He held out his hand, silently apologizing for his curt answer. “A flight just came in.”
    “So?”
    “So what passes for a taxi service should be waiting out front for passengers.”
    Hannah looked at the car they had just gotten out of. She looked at Archer. He didn’t say a word. She took his hand and headed for the ragged jitney that would ferry them to town.
    When the van left the airport, there were only six people sitting on the cracked, sticky seats. The other four passengers were two couples who had nothing in common but the slammed feeling of having been on a jet for too many hours, through too many time zones, and then walking out of stale air-conditioning into the tropical sauna of Broome air in late November. Overdressed for the time and place, they watched the world outside the jitney windows with the glazed eyes of people who would remember nothing of their surroundings until they slept for eight