Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

right bitch to match with the usual run of Pearl Cove product.”
    “Probably because they came from Tahiti, not Pearl Cove.”
    “Why would— Never mind. Quotas, right?”
    “Bingo. Laundering pearls from Chang’s Tahitian pearl farms through Australia’s Pearl Cove would be a good way to evade quotas.” Archer hesitated, then gave in to temptation. With the tip of his tongue he tasted the soft, fragrant skin just behind Hannah’s ear. “Or the pearls could have been stolen and then sold at bargain rates to Len. Another kind of laundering. It’s possible the pearls could have been stolen from Len and sold to Chang, but it’s not likely. To my eye, the orient is Tahitian rather than Australian.”
    “I agree.” She shivered, caught between the sultry heat of Archer’s tongue tracing her hairline and the cool assessment of his words. “Would Ian have known about this?”
    “Likely. Why?”
    “If Chang wasn’t evading the quotas, if Len was fencing stolen Chang pearls . . .”
    “It would be a motive for murder, is that it?”
    She nodded, though the thought of Ian Chang ordering Len’s murder made her cold. She had never wanted Chang as a lover, but she considered him a friend.
    Abruptly Hannah turned her face in to Archer’s neck, burrowing, inhaling the musky mixture of heat and soap and man. Instead of being like rough silk, he felt rough, period. The individual hairs that just barely poked out from his skin were like wire.
    “Why do they call it beard burn when you only get it from a man who shaves?” she muttered.
    Archer laughed softly at the non sequitur. “Are you telling me I need to shave again?”
    “I’m telling you I miss your beard.”
    “I’ll throw away my razor.”
    “Lovely.”
    “Tell me that in a week.”
    “Okay.”
    He hesitated, then gave in to a need to touch, taste, cherish. He tilted up her chin and kissed her, a kiss as soft as his voice whispering, “You’re a very special woman, Hannah.”
    “Because I like beards?”
    “Among other things.”
    “What other things?”
    Before he could answer, the door leading into the back of the shop opened and Paul strode out. “Madame, monsieur, if you will come this way, I will show you the finest of pearls.”
    “Matched?” Her voice was a nice blend of eagerness and doubt.
    “Mais oui.” He turned and barked out some fast orders in Chinese. Another man appeared. Like Paul, he was slender, expensively dressed, and quite beautiful except for the suggestion of a sneer on his full lips.
    The man bowed briefly and took up a station near the door.
    “Come with me,” Paul said. “Please.”
    Hannah took her time following the curt invitation. Her pulse was still speeding from the hot, delicate caress of Archer’s tongue and the stroke of his hand from her nape to her hips. She would have been unnerved by her headlong response to him if she hadn’t felt his own swift reaction, the quickening of his pulse and the hardening of his body against her belly.
    The store’s vault was much larger than the ruined one in Pearl Cove. Like the store, the room leading to the vault was divided into sections. Unlike the store, the guards here were visible, for all their carefully tailored dark silk suits. Anyone hoping to grab and run wouldn’t make it to the front door.
    Off to the left, two Chinese men discussed the merits of three enormous silver-white South Seas pearls. Just beyond the men, a Chinese dowager measured the weight and feel of a matinee-length necklace whose pearls were all as big as a man’s thumb. These, too, were silver-white pearls. A German man wearing a wool sport coat and slacks waved off one tray of undrilled pearls and demanded another. Despite the air-conditioning in the vault, the German was sweating. On the table in front of him was the beginnings of a golden South Seas necklace.
    Paul gestured to a table and velvet-covered chairs that waited off to the right, just beyond the vault’s door. The decor here was a modern Asian take on Louis XIV magnificence—a deep teal blue and cream Chinese rug woven in ancient cloud patterns, gilt chairs with cream silk cushions and raised blue brocade ribbing, and gilt mirrors whose faintly curved frames matched those of the chair. The walls were a rich cream silk that matched the chair cushions. Raised blue ideographs wished the occupants health, serenity, and a fat bank account.
    The video cameras that covered all angles of the room were also a tasteful