Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

understand.”
    “Aw, babe. How long did I look for just the right shade of fancy blue diamond for you?”
    She rolled her eyes. “I was looking right alongside you.”
    “Years.”
    “But we found it, didn’t we?” She held her hand out and admired the flash and play of her rings. “Even if it looks a little off in this light. Stupid jewelry stores. Why don’t they just use full-spectrum lighting?”
    “Admire your rocks outside. We’re looking for a pearl necklace in here, remember?” But he grinned and ran his fingertip down her arm in a slow caress to take any possible sting from his words. “You know my policy. Only the best for you, darlin’.”
    She made a husky, murmurous sound, stood on tiptoe, and brushed her lips against his. “You’re such a sweetie.”
    “For you, I’m pure sugar.” He smoothed his hand over her hip and squeezed with the assurance of a man fondling a longtime lover. “Go see if you like something. If not, there are other stores in Hong Kong.”
    She toyed with the gold chain lying against his furry chest, smiled when he winced at the hair caught in the chain, and sauntered over to the nearest pedestal. After walking around it once, she leaned in and calmly snagged the necklace off its ice-blue satin pillow.
    Instantly an alarm chimed, both musical and loud. Monsieur Paul hung up and shot out of his chair, letting loose a torrent of French with a pronounced Tahitian flavor.
    Ignoring him like dirt under her feet, Hannah kept looking at the necklace. The semibaroque black pearls were beautifully matched for shape, size, color, and luster. They looked like slightly flattened planets with rings around them. Their orient had an unusual silver-blue sheen. There was a scattering of surface pits and a few cloudy spots, all of which were very minor on first inspection. The asking price was major, just under $320,000. A portion of that price was due to the pale blue diamonds set in the platinum clasp.
    “What’s he fussing about, sugar?” she asked without looking up from the pearl necklace.
    “Beats me,” Archer said, swallowing his laughter.
    She replaced the necklace on its pedestal, which shut up the alarm. Without a pause she headed toward the next display area. This one featured a matinee-length necklace of matched, uniform black pearls. These had a peacock-blue sheen and a pigeon-blood ruby clasp.
    “Madame,” the man said quickly in English, stepping between Hannah and the velvet rope. “I am Monsieur Paul. Please permit me to assist you. Pearls are like a woman, very delicate. They must be handled carefully.”
    His accent was island French, legacy of his birth on the Chang pearl farms in Tahiti. His demeanor was that of a slender prince trying to be patient with a thickheaded peon. He wore a suit and tie, both of cream-colored silk. His shirt was also silk, dawn pink in color. Handsome as a soap-opera star, he moved confidently, knowing women of all races would forgive him in advance.
    He led Hannah back to the first pedestal and pulled a butter-soft cloth from his inner suit-coat pocket. Deftly he switched off the alarm and wiped down the pearls Hannah had touched. Only when he was satisfied with their gleam did he settle them back into their satin-lined display and reactivate the alarm.
    Throughout the whole process, Hannah examined her fingernails. One by one. The hot pink color she had applied on the plane was already showing wear. When it came to nail polish, she was hopeless. Nor did she care whether her nails were perfect or perfectly awful. She was silently, thoroughly, telling the elegant Monsieur Paul that she wasn’t forgiving him for anything, no matter how beautifully he pouted.
    “If pearls are that delicate, they won’t last long, will they?” Archer asked Paul.
    “Mais non! With care, they will last for generation after generation.”
    “Care, huh?” Archer glanced at Hannah. She was still examining the polish she had put on while he slept on the plane. “Maybe you better fill me in. My wife and I are new to the pearl game. She saw some black pearls on a French model at our last party and hasn’t let up on me since.”
    Paul’s eyes brightened. Paying celebrities and models to wear Tahitian pearls was a common, very effective way of drawing attention to pearls in a culture such as America’s, which was focused on faceted gems.
    “Always store your fine pearls in a soft bag,” Paul said in the tone of a professor, “separate from