Amber Beach

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Her brother laughed, surprising both of them. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “What?”

  “A laugh.”

  Honor’s smile was as sad as her eyes. “Archer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think he’s still alive, don’t you?”

  The static had never sounded more unnerving. She held her breath, waiting.

  “Until I see the body . . .” Archer’s voice faded.

  “Yes.” She took a harsh breath. “Kyle isn’t a thief or a murderer!”

  Silence stretched. A chill went over Honor.

  “Archer?”

  “Kyle was thinking with his hormones.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Some little prick tease had him tied up in knots.”

  “Are you saying that Kyle wanted this woman enough to steal for her?” Honor asked.

  Eyes closed, breath held, she waited for Archer’s answer. All that came was silence followed by static. After too long her brother swore wearily, drowning out the static. In her mind she saw him raking his fingers through his dark hair in a gesture of frustration that all of the Donovan men shared.

  “We don’t know what happened,” he said. “The evidence against Kyle looks good. Too damned good. Almost like . . .”

  Again, Archer’s voice faded into static.

  “Keep talking,” she said. “Tell me you don’t think what the cops think about Kyle.”

  “That he’s guilty of theft?”

  “And murder.”

  “Whatever happened, I think that the explanations I’m hearing are too tidy.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Too long and involved. Just take my word for it.”

  “But—”

  “Have you checked the boat?” Archer interrupted.

  “For something smaller than my six-feet, two-inch brother?” she asked sweetly.

  “Never mind. I’m sending you back home.”

  “What? I just got here.”

  “You’re leaving.”

  “What about Kyle’s boat?”

  “Stay off it. Even tied at the dock, the Tomorrow is way out of your league. Pack up, Hornet. Go on back home and design gemmy little knickknacks for Faith.”

  Honor hated that particular nickname. She also hated being treated like she was addicted to all-day suckers.

  “Archer, you—”

  “If the cops bother you before you leave,” he said, talking over her, “sic one of Donovan International’s lawyers on them.”

  “What about reporters?” she asked tightly.

  “No comment.”

  “No problem. I don’t know anything.”

  “That’s the whole idea. Start packing.”

  “But—”

  She was talking into a dead phone. With a disgusted word she dropped the receiver back into the cradle. It would be a cold day in hell before she tamely packed her bags and left. She wasn’t some schoolgirl to be ordered around.

  “Trouble?” Jake asked.

  Honor jumped. She had forgotten she wasn’t alone. She spun around. Jake was standing a few feet away with a local newspaper in his hand. She wondered if he had read the mixture of half-truths and breathless speculation about Kyle Donovan, a mysterious corpse, and missing amber that passed for news in the morning edition of the Fidalgo Island Patriot.

  “Family,” she said tersely. “Can’t live with them and they won’t let you live without them.”

  Jake made a sound that could have been understanding, but it was hard to tell with a growl. She chose to believe the rumble offered sympathy.

  She needed it. Her oldest brother could have taught tight lips to a clam, the cops thought her favorite brother was a murderous crook, said favorite brother had vanished . . . and she had just signed up to learn how to fish.

  A complete disaster all around.

  “Ready to go look at the boat?” Jake asked.

  “Why not? Everything else has gone wrong.”

  “Your enthusiasm bubbles over like a plugged toilet.”

  “Understandable. I’m sooo excited.”

  Black eyebrows climbed. “You did advertise for a fishing guide, correct?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry. I’m a bit worn out.”

  “You look like you could use a cup of coffee,” he agreed. “Does the galley work on your boat?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so.” He shook his head. “Have you owned the boat long?”

  “No. My brother . . . left it to me.”

  The explanation sounded lame even to Honor. She was terrified of small boats and hated fishing, both of which Jake would soon find out. Then he would wonder why she wanted to learn how to run a small boat and go fishing.

  Maybe he would accept masochism as an excuse.

  “I . . .” She swallowed and tried again. “It’s still painful. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Jake wasn’t surprised. No matter how innocent Honor looked, she was hiding a lot.

  But then, so was he.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s check out your boat.”

  2

  OFF TO THE southwest, a bank of clouds lay like a feather comforter on the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula. Overhead, the sun temporarily ruled the sky. The water was like fine blue satin, still and glistening. Only the secret, powerful flow of tidal currents disturbed the calm surface of the strait.

  Honor hesitated at the head of the gravel path leading down the rocky bluff to the beach fifteen feet below. The air was cool, clean, scented with fir. The silence was a balm to her unsettled thoughts. She really didn’t want to ruin the small peace she felt by going fishing. On the other hand, anything was better than sitting around and worrying about Kyle. She started toward the dock with a determined stride.

  Jake didn’t notice Honor’s hesitation. He went down the path, onto the dock, and stepped into the open stern of the Tomorrow. Barely pausing in his stride, he popped open a small compartment on the stern gunwale and cranked the dial around to the on position for both batteries.

  When he straightened, he realized that he was still alone on the boat. He turned to see what had happened to his reluctant fishersan.

  Honor stood on the dock eyeing the Tomorrow the way a suspicious cat eyes a full bathtub.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s moving.”

  He glanced quickly around. Both the bow and stern lines were securely tied to the fore and aft dock cleats.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “It’s tied off at both ends.”

  “Then why is it bouncing around?”

  Jake looked at the deck of the Tomorrow. The boat was swaying slightly as it adjusted to his weight and the gentle slapping of salt water disturbed by a breeze.

  “Bouncing around,” he said neutrally. “Honor, have you ever been on a boat before?”

  “Of course.”

  “When?”

  “The last time I took a ferry to Vancouver Island.”

  “Doesn’t count. Those ferries are almost as big as aircraft carriers.”

  “That’s why I like them. They don’t bounce.”

  “You’d be surprised what they’ll do in a good wind.”

  She ignored him.

  “Have you ever been on a small boat before?” he asked.

  “Once.”

  The look on her face said that she hadn’t enjoyed the experience.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Lawe and Justin—two of my four brothers—took me fishing. A wind came up and the boat bucked like a rodeo bull. I had to lie in the bottom with the fish to keep from going overboard.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Did you go out fishing again after that?”

  “Do I look like a masochist?”

  “For all I know you’re wearing a hair shirt underneath that floppy sweat suit.”

  She whipped u
p her black sweatshirt, revealing a tourmaline-green sweater that fit very well.

  “Regulation cotton,” she said. “And my sweat suit isn’t floppy. It’s comfortable.”

  Hastily Jake looked away from the sleek torso Honor had so unexpectedly revealed. Beneath sweats that were big enough for a man his size, his employer was built just the way he liked women. Not too skinny. Not too fat. Not too big. Not too small. Just right for his hands. Just right for his mouth. Just right everywhere.

  Too bad she was a Donovan. Jake was long past the age of screwing a female he didn’t trust.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember the last time a female interested him as much as this one did. Besides, there were few better excuses to stay close to a woman than a new, red-hot affair. And he intended to stay close to Honor every step of the way to finding Kyle and the stolen shipment of amber.

  Jake looked back at her and smiled.

  “Comfortable, huh?” he said. “Well, if I get wet, I’ll know where to find a dry sweat suit.”

  “Hold your breath. I’m more likely to get wet than you are.”

  “Standing on the dock?”

  She sighed and looked at him. As soon as she went down into the boat, she would be looking up at him again. And bouncing around. With a silent prayer, she took the long step off the dock—and promptly caught the heel of her running shoe on some unexpected part of the gunwale.

  Jake caught Honor as easily as he had stepped into the boat himself. He looked into her startled eyes, smiled slightly, and released her much more slowly than he had grabbed her.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  “You’re welcome. There’s a place in town that sells deck shoes.”

  “Good for them.”

  “Better for you. When the deck gets wet, you’ll think you’re ice-skating unless you wear deck shoes.”

  “Wet! The deck isn’t supposed to get wet. That’s why I hired you.”

  “Water is wet. Boats float in water. Boats get wet.”

  “There goes your tip.”

  Jake snickered, then shook his head and laughed out loud. Whatever her bad taste in siblings, Honor Donovan was someone he could like.

  The thought sobered him instantly. The last thing he needed was to like Kyle’s kid sister. Just because she obviously had inherited a full dose of Donovan charm was no reason to like her, much less to slide downhill into trusting her. At the end of that slippery, treacherous slope was the kind of rage and disappointment he had felt when he discovered that Kyle was as crooked as he was good company. Jake’s corporation would be years recovering from the damage Kyle had done, if recovery was even possible.

  It had been a long time since Jake had misjudged a human being so badly. As far as he was concerned, hell would freeze solid before he made such a mistake again.

  People died making mistakes like that.

  “I’ll survive without a tip,” he said. “Get deck shoes when you get the fishing license.”

  Honor stared at him, surprise clear on her face.

  He forced himself to smile and reminded himself that whatever else Kyle’s sister might be, she wasn’t stupid. She read him far too clearly for his comfort. And for hers, apparently. She didn’t look happy with whatever she had seen in his eyes.

  Nothing new in that. A lot of people got uncomfortable when he looked at them a certain way.

  Jake held out his hand.

  “I thought you didn’t expect a tip,” she said.

  “Keys.”

  Without a word she dug into the pouch pocket of her sweatshirt and brought out a simple floating key chain. There were only two keys on it. One looked a bit like an old-fashioned skeleton key. The other looked like an overgrown luggage key.

  “I don’t know how to start the engine,” she said.

  “I do. That’s why you hired me.”

  He took the old-fashioned key, inserted it into the door leading into the boat’s cabin, and turned the handle. The door opened easily. Its big tinted glass panel flashed in the sunlight.

  “Why don’t you sit in the pilot seat for now,” he said.

  “Uh, sure. Where is it?”

  “Up front on the port—left-side,” Jake said, “directly across from the helm seat. The helm is the thing that looks like a steering wheel.”

  “There’s one of those right behind you.”

  “That’s the aft station. I want you inside.”

  Honor didn’t move. “You’re supposed to teach me how to run the boat. I won’t learn anything sitting in there while you’re busy out here.”

  “You’re serious about that part of it?”

  “Very.”

  Jake looked into her level, golden-green eyes and didn’t doubt her words. Whatever lack of interest she had in fishing, she wanted to learn how to operate her brother’s boat.

  Both relief and disappointment coursed through him—disappointment because she was part of Kyle’s scheme, whatever that was, and relief that she wasn’t as clueless as she had sounded on the phone with Archer.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Ready for lesson number one?”

  Honor nodded.

  “The first thing you do after coming on board is lift the engine cover and check the engine.”

  “That little compartment?” she asked, pointing to the stern.

  “No. This big compartment.”

  He pointed to the squared-off hump that took up more than half of the standing room in the open stern of the boat.

  “You opened the little compartment first,” Honor said. “Then you opened the door to the cabin.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were out of the way before I checked the engine.”

  “Why?”

  “The cover eats toes.”

  “Would it settle for a cheese sandwich?”

  He tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. She was a very female, even more unsquelchable version of Kyle.

  Kyle, who could charm rust off steel.

  “Stand over here,” Jake said, positioning Honor to his right, away from the dock. “Watch your toes.”

  He bent, hooked the fingers of his left hand in the engine cover, and lifted it back on its hinges. The compartment yawned open at the stern. With the lid tilted back vertically, there was barely enough room around the edge of the hole to stand without falling in. There was no room for a man to slide between the cabin door and the cover.

  Honor whistled when she saw the gleaming black beauty that filled the compartment. “That’s an engine!”

  “Four hundred and fifty-four cubic inches,” he agreed. “Goes like bloody blue blazes, if you don’t mind buying gas.”

  “No free lunch?”

  “Not even a snack.”

  He pulled out the dipstick, checked it, and held it out for her to inspect.

  “Looks like oil to me,” she said.

  “Good news. Salt water in the oil is like sugar in the gas tank. Bad luck. So the first thing you do when you get on board is check to make sure nothing has seeped in since you docked.”

  He replaced the dipstick. Then he squatted easily on his heels and began a thorough inspection of various hoses, clamps, and fittings.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Careless maintenance.”

  “Kyle is quick-tempered but he isn’t careless.”

  Jake grunted and kept right on looking. In the short time he had known Kyle, he hadn’t appeared to be careless. But then, he hadn’t appeared to be a crook, either. When it came to Kyle Donovan, Jake wasn’t counting on one damned thing he hadn’t held in his hands and examined with a wary eye.

  “Shipshape and looking good,” he said, standing again. “Watch your toes. This cover is heavy enough to take them right off.”

  Honor crowded back against the side of the boat as Jake lowered the engine cover back down. There was no latch to keep it closed and no need of one. The weight of the cover alone was enough to hold it in place.

  “What next?” she a
sked.

  “Blower. Go in and sit to the left of the driver’s seat.”

  “Driver? Aren’t boat folks called captains or pilots or something important?”

  “Depends. Personally, I drive boats and don’t talk any more nautical than I have to.”

  Honor stepped down into the cabin, walked up the short, narrow aisle, and climbed up to a bench seat that looked forward over the bow. Unlike a car, the steering wheel of the boat was on the right-hand side. The “windshield” was three separate windows with a steep inward slant from top to bottom.

  After a moment Jake came and stood beside her seat. He filled the narrow aisle. Every breath she drew in smelled of soap and heat and something indefinably male. His black beard was either new or very closely cropped. His skin was clean. His hair was a thick, gleaming black pelt that was combed away from his face. His mustache was slightly longer than the rest of his beard. It emphasized the crisp line of his mouth.

  She was tempted to trace the sharp peaks of his upper lip and the promising curve of his lower lip. The thought startled her even as it intrigued her. She hadn’t felt such an intense feminine curiosity about a man since puberty.

  “This is the blower control,” he said.

  Reluctantly she looked at the console in front of the steering wheel. He was pointing to one in a row of black rocker switches.

  “Blower control,” she repeated.

  “The blower sucks air out of the engine compartment. Never start this boat until the blower has run for several minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Gas fumes. If they’ve built up and you hit the ignition switch, the explosion could put you in near-earth orbit.”

  Her eyes widened. “Bad luck.”

  “The worst.”

  He hit the rocker switch. A fan kicked in somewhere at the stern of the boat, inside the engine compartment.

  Jake lifted the bottom of the driver’s seat and tilted it toward the steering wheel. There was a small sink tucked away underneath the seat. He turned on the water pump, rummaged for a kettle and settled for a saucepan, and put some water on to boil on the small galley stove.

  Then he turned back to the boat itself. He went over the controls, turning on electronics, checking dials, and listening to the marine weather report from Canada, twenty miles away. As he touched each piece of equipment, he gave Honor a short explanation of its function.