Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

wasn’t betting on it.
    He dragged his mind back to the task at hand. There was nothing he could do to change what he had done in the past or her fear of him in the present.
    You’re like Len! Damn you, you’re like Len!
    Ruthless. Cold. Unworthy.
    For a moment Archer’s eyes closed, as though being blind would somehow make the agony less. It didn’t. He accepted that, too. He had lost Hannah to Len. Twice. This time he had lost her before he ever had a real chance to win, but not before he had learned the razor stroke of love against his undefended soul.
    Accept it.
    Get over it.
    Get on with it.
    Archer’s eyes opened. He stared at the information on the screen. Nothing new emerged. Pearl Cove, along with other rebellious pearl farms in every pearling zone of Western Australia, had been systematically given the short straw when it came to allotments of wild shell. The allotment of “domestic” shell, the amount of oysters a farmer could breed and raise on his own farm, had also been curtailed.
    The only loophole was “experimental” shell, those oysters devoted to improving the breed. Not surprisingly, Len had designated forty percent of his farm as experimental. The truth was closer to seventy percent, a fact that even Hannah hadn’t known. The shortfall in pearls was made up in Tahitian gems from Sam Chang’s farms.
    Nothing new there, either. No matter how much Archer might wish it, he no longer believed that the answer to who killed Len McGarry lay within Len’s computer. Len had made enemies the way the ocean makes waves—effortlessly, inevitably. But only one of those enemies had killed him. Only one of them had the Black Trinity.
    Find the Black Trinity and he would find Len’s killer.
    Archer rubbed his face as though to wake up some brain cells. His growing beard grated over his palms, bringing a surge of memories like molten glass.
    Why do they call it beard burn when you only get it from a man who shaves?
    I’ll throw away my razor.
    Lovely.
    Tell me that in a week.
    Okay.
    Abruptly he shoved back from the computer and stood. He stretched hard, hoping to release the tension that kept tightening his body until he felt like he was being squeezed by a boa constrictor. He looked at his watch and wondered if Jake was up yet. He hesitated, then punched a number on the intercom.
    “Yeah?” The voice was rough, relaxed, and alert.
    “It’s Archer. How’d you like to go one on one?”
    “Only if we keep Lianne out of it. She dumped me on my butt last time. Lord, that female is quick.”
    Archer smiled and felt the coils of tension loosen. “Ten minutes?”
    “Five. I’ve been awake for an hour.”
    Archer heard Honor’s sleepy voice in the background, followed by Jake’s soothing murmur. “No, don’t get up, honey. I’m just going to hammer your brother into the exercise mat.”
    “Kyle?” Honor asked, surprised into wakefulness. “At this hour? Kyle never gets up before eight unless the place is burning down.”
    “Not Kyle. Archer.”
    “Archer’s here?”
    “Morning, sis,” Archer said clearly. “How’s my favorite little redhead?”
    “Summer?” Honor yawned. “She’s asleep in the next room. Must have inherited Kyle’s genes, thank God.”
    “She sure got your temper.”
    “Ha. That temper is Jake’s all the way.”
    Conversation faded into the indistinct, soft sounds of lovers saying good-bye. Archer tried not to think of Hannah and the warm pleasures of sleeping and waking with her in his arms.
    “One hour,” Honor said clearly. “Then we’re coming to get you.”
    Hannah awoke, murmured sleepily, and searched for Archer’s warmth. Then she remembered his icy, brutal instruction.
    If you want protection or sex, punch number six.
    Emotions shot through her, too many and too sharp to name. Nor did she want to name them. She didn’t have to in order to shove the unruly mass down and cage it in darkness. To survive. She had had a lifetime of practice at surviving emotion.
    Angrily she told herself that there was nothing she could have or should have done differently last night. She wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of the past. The purpose of pain was to teach you not to go there again. The greater the pain, the deeper the lesson.
    Len had been a world-class teacher.
    Hannah got up and went to the bathroom. It was clean, cool, done in a refreshing mix of navy blue, sunshine yellow, and white. The tub was big enough for two. She ignored it and headed for the