Amber Beach

by Elizabeth Lowell

“Sort of. They do work for him on a contract basis, but never enough that Donovan International is their only customer, or even their best one.”

  “Smart.” But then, Jake had already known that. The Donovan males he had met were as intelligent as they were hardheaded.

  “I suppose. Sure makes for some interesting Thanksgivings and Christmases, with Dad praying at every meal for stray lambs to return to the fold and said lambs running as hard as they can to stay out of reach of the old wolf.”

  The idea of the Donovan brothers as “lambs” made Jake laugh out loud.

  “Are your holidays like that?” Honor asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Fighting off family.”

  “Nope. We can’t get far enough away from each other.”

  “Sounds . . . lonely.”

  “You know what they say about freedom.”

  “No, what?”

  “Another way of saying nothing left to lose.”

  Jake changed course, ducked around a little island, shot across a narrow strait, and shut down to an idle at the base of a rugged stone cliff. He punched a button. The fish finder glowed in blue and red on the lower screen.

  Honor didn’t bother to ask where they were. Even with a chart, she had a hard time sorting out which San Juan island was which. There were a lot of islands, many so small they were barely rocks. She had tried orienting herself with the chart while they raced from place to place, but all she got for her efforts was a headache and a sour stomach.

  “Hot damn!” he said. “They’re here.”

  She leaned in for a better view. The screen looked like somebody had been drawing yellow dashes on it between forty and ninety feet. Before she could ask if the random clumps of color were fish, Jake was gone. She followed him out into the stern well and watched while he started the kicker engine and set up the fishing rods. The gear didn’t particularly interest her. Watching Jake’s easy, economical way of moving did.

  He mistook her presence for a desire to learn more about fishing.

  “We’ve dragged all the dead herring through the water that I’m going to for today,” he said. He bent over the white plastic bucket and picked up a lure that had been dangling from the rim. “Know what this is?”

  “Looks like two little hooks from here. Incredible. I don’t know if I can stand the excitement.”

  But there was no real sarcasm in her voice. She was having too much fun watching Jake enjoy himself. And she knew he was enjoying. It was there in his voice, in the brilliance of his eyes, in the springy way he moved. The man loved fishing.

  Well, she reminded herself, nobody is perfect. I’ve got some industrial-strength flaws myself.

  “The hooks,” he said, “are attached to a nifty, semi-flexible lure called the Tormentor. I’m going to bend it just enough so that it imitates the action of a cut-plug herring. Now I’m going to attach the Tormentor’s leader to the dodger and—”

  “Foul!” she interrupted.

  “What?”

  “You aren’t going to teach me fishing. I signed on for boat handling, period.”

  “I didn’t think you really meant it.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Okay.”

  Just like that, Jake went back to setting up the fishing gear. After a few minutes he started whistling. The sweet clarity of the sound reminded Honor of a nightingale at moonrise. It was startling to hear something so beautiful coming from the lips of such a hard-looking man.

  Then Honor realized there was something else about Jake that was surprising. If he had been one of her brothers, she would have been in for a battle of wills over the issue of learning or not learning to fish. But Jake not only accepted her decision without a fight, he didn’t sulk.

  Very quickly there were two fishing lines in the water, Jake was in position at the aft station, and they were creeping past the cliff at a pace only slightly faster than that of grass growing.

  Jake looked up, eyes narrowed against the glare of the descending sun. The Zodiac had taken up a position a hundred feet out to sea, paralleling the Tomorrow. The Bayliner with Ellen aboard was even farther out. No other boat was within sight. Either Snake Eyes had gone home or he was off the scope somewhere.

  Ignoring the escort, Jake looked back at the arch of the fishing rods and the subtle, hypnotic dip and sway of the rod tips as each responded to its dodger.

  “Now what?” Honor asked.

  “We fish.”

  “Goody. Like watching paint dry, only less exciting.”

  “You’ll change your mind as soon as you feel a salmon on the other end of the line.”

  “Be still my beating heart.”

  Shaking his head, Jake looked at the shoreline. There were no houses or cabins to interrupt the wildness of the place; there were only stone cliffs, wind-twisted fir trees, and a clean, cloud-layered sky. Between the clouds, random, slanting shafts of sun spotlighted rocks and water. A bald eagle soared overhead and the boat swayed gently beneath his feet. For the first time in weeks, a sense of peace curled through Jake.

  Honor looked at the softened line of his mouth and knew she was getting in over her head. Just seeing his pleasure made her want to smile and hold out her arms.

  Stop looking at him, she warned herself. Do something useful. Anything. Just stop thinking about Jake Mallory.

  But as soon as she did, thoughts of Kyle and amber and death haunted her. Now she just wanted to crawl into Jake’s arms and be comforted.

  Merde, she said silently, disgusted with herself.

  She went back into the cabin, pulled a sketch pad and pencil out of her backpack, and flipped to the design that was still eluding her. After a few minutes she took a box out of the backpack, opened it carefully, and stared at the amber inside.

  No inspiration came.

  Gently she picked up the amber, cradling it in her hand, turning it slowly. But no matter how hard she stared at the tantalizing lines, creative lightning didn’t strike. Maybe direct sunlight would help.

  She tucked the amber into the pocket of her wind shell, grabbed pad and pencil, and went outside. She discovered that the engine cover made a surprisingly comfortable seat. She settled in with her back against the stern. Without taking out the amber, she began trying variations on her design’s basic theme, working from memory alone.

  Jake stood in the doorway, driving the boat from the aft station while watching the fish finder in the front of the cabin.

  Soon a rill of nightingalelike notes rose into the quiet afternoon. Though there was no obvious melody in his whistling, Honor found it both relaxing and mentally stimulating, rather like listening to Gregorian chants. Her pencil flew over one page, then another, then another, trying out various ways of balancing line and shape, evocation and representation, creating the blend of flow and meaning that made her creations unique.

  Belatedly she realized that the whistling had stopped and Jake was watching her. She looked up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to distract you.”

  “You didn’t. The whistling actually helped me to concentrate. I only noticed when you stopped.”

  It must be something in the Donovan genes, Jake thought wryly. Kyle had enjoyed “dueling whistles”—Kyle with his pennywhistle and Jake with only his lips.

  “What are you working on?” he asked. “Or is asking like peeking over your shoulder?”

  She smiled. “It’s not peeking if I show you.” She turned the pad so that it was right side up for Jake.

  “That’s the piece of amber you had at the cottage, isn’t it?” he said, recognizing the shape and combination of smooth and rough surfaces. “The one I caught before it hit the floor.”

  “You have a good eye.”

  “You’re a good artist.”

  “Illustrator.”

  “Buttercup.”

  She shot him a sideways glance out of eyes that were nearly as golden as amber touched by slanting, late-afternoon sun.

  “Most pe
ople can’t tell one chunk of amber from another at a glance,” she said.

  “I suppose so.”

  “But you can.”

  Jake shrugged, hating to spoil the peace of the moment with evasions and half-truths. “Amber is an interest of mine. Has been since I was a kid.”

  “Really? Is that why you asked so many questions about the amber Kyle is supposed to have stolen?”

  Jake nodded, but he was cursing silently. Honor was too quick. The less he said right now, the better off he would be when she found out. On the other hand, it was getting tiresome to always teeter along the sharp edges of half-truths and lies, wondering when he was going to be pushed off and cut himself to the bone. If he had liked living that way, he and Ellen would still have the same boss.

  “What attracted you to amber when you were a kid?” Honor asked curiously.

  “I felt sorry for the flies stuck in the past. What are you drawing?”

  She could tell by looking at Jake that she wasn’t going to get anywhere if she pursued the subject of why a child would identify with insects trapped in amber. So she answered his question instead of asking another one of her own.

  “I’m drawing what Faith will sculpt. Kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  Honor looked back at the sketch. “I mean, the piece won’t be a real sculpture, finished in three dimensions. More of a bas—relief.” She frowned at the paper and admitted, “Actually, I’m beginning to think it’s a mistake. I’m not getting there from here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Without answering, she reached inside the loose pocket of her wind shell. When her hand came back out, a hunk of amber gleamed on her palm like every hope of sunlight and warmth ever dreamed by a cold, shivering man.

  Jake whistled softly. In the pure light, the amber showed its true worth. It was transparent but for a swirl of tiny bubbles and intriguing flecks of ebony. Polished on one side and delicately crazed on the other, the amber had a satin radiance that redefined the word golden.

  It burned.

  “Ardent stone,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “That’s what amber means. Stone that burns. May I? I didn’t really get a chance to look at this piece before.”

  “Sure, but there aren’t any flies in it.”

  He didn’t say a word. He just held the amber between himself and the descending sun.

  Honor caught her breath at the sudden, incandescent beauty of the gem. It was as though she had never really seen it before. The random swirls suggested a man’s closely cropped hair and beard, and the ebony flecks evoked half-opened eyes as deep as the human soul . . . a man caught forever in amber, free only because he had no more to lose.

  “Don’t move!” she said urgently.

  Jake froze in the instant before he realized that there was nothing wrong. She flipped to a new page and began drawing with a speed as dazzling as the amber bathed in sunlight. He watched and held the stone so that its golden shadow fell onto the paper.

  A rod tip jerked, catching his eye.

  “Uh, Honor . . .”

  “Not yet. I’ve been trying to see that face ever since I was born.”

  From the corner of his eye Jake looked at the rod tip closest to him. It was moving up and down much faster and harder than the dodger could account for.

  “Honor . . .”

  She made a go-away noise and kept on drawing.

  The line did what it was designed to do. It popped out of the down-rigger clip and headed off at an angle.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered in disgust. “We can always have pizza tonight.”

  “There. Got it! Or most of it.” She looked up. “Pizza? I’d rather have salmon, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “So would I!”

  He bent, stuffed the amber back into her pocket, and yanked the rod out of the holder in one continuous motion. A quick upward jerk assured him that the fish was still on the line. The motion of the rod told him the fish was a salmon and it was well and truly hooked.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing the rod over to Honor and taking the sketch pad. “Reel in our dinner. I’ll handle the boat.”

  “But I can’t—I’ve never—” The rod leaped and quivered in her hands. “My God! Jake, there’s really a fish on the other end of this line!”

  “Sure is. Reel, buttercup.”

  11

  IT WAS FULL dark by the time Jake buttoned up the Tomorrow for the night and drove to his own cabin to check the answering machine. There was no news from Emerging Resources, but there was a surly message from Ellen on the subject of racing boats and their testosterone-freak drivers.

  “Tough kibble, lady,” he said. “If you can’t run with the wolves, stay in your kennel.”

  Smiling with a wolfish kind of satisfaction, he grabbed some wine and headed back to Honor. There was another message, of sorts, at the turnoff to her driveway—an unmarked car parked in a little turnout just off the county road. In case anyone wondered what the car was doing there, a radar unit poked out the open window.

  Jake wasn’t the only one who had noticed the cop’s presence. Local traffic, which normally went at least ten miles over the twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit on the little road, was going precisely what the law allowed. In Washington State, speed traps were considered a valuable, ecologically sound, endlessly renewable resource that was nourished by ridiculously low speed limits.

  Honor opened the front door as soon as the truck coasted to a stop. It shouldn’t have pleased Jake that she was watching for him, but it did. What pleased him even more was that, like him, she had showered and changed her clothes. Her hair looked slightly damp and she was wearing casual slacks and a loose blouse that were the same color as her green-and-golden eyes. Talk about looking good enough to eat . . .

  Jake wrenched his mind out of its single track and got out of the car. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “No. The charcoal is ready and so am I.”

  He blinked. “For what?”

  “Salmon, what else? I’m starved.”

  So was he, but salmon was distant second to what he really wanted—Honor Donovan, naked, in bed. He grabbed the bottle of cold Chardonnay he had brought from his cabin and followed her into the cottage.

  While he made a marinade for the salmon and put it on the barbecue, Honor was right on his heels, proud as a duck with fourteen ducklings.

  “Well, the day wasn’t entirely wasted,” she said, gloating over the fish. “But it’s too bad you didn’t catch one.”

  Jake smiled, remembering her dancing excitement when she finally managed to reel in her fish. She had lit up like a Christmas tree. Just watching her had been more fun than he could remember having in a long, long time.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, putting the cover on the barbecue. “There will be other salmon for me.”

  Honor looked uncertain as she followed Jake back into the house. None of the Donovan males had been worried about being outdone by a woman, but some of her dates hadn’t taken it very well.

  “You’re sure?” she asked, shutting the back door.

  “Uh huh,” Jake said, tugging lightly on a strand of her hair. “I don’t mind, honey. Even if I caught a salmon, I would have turned it loose.”

  “Why?”

  “Even after I cleaned it, yours weighed fourteen pounds. By the time you finish eating it in sandwiches, pastas, omelets, and salads, you’ll be thinking salmon is another name for too much of a good thing.”

  “Ha! I’ve never gotten my fill of fresh salmon. Or good smoked salmon, either.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to get you a big salmon.”

  “A big one? What do you call that?” She gestured toward the barbecue.

  “Good eating. But if you’re going to get the best smoking fish, you go for ones over twenty-five pounds. Thirty and up, way up, is best. Unfortunately, there aren’t many that big left in the San Juans.”

&n
bsp; “Thirty pounds?” Her eyes widened. “Good grief. I better start lifting weights. I had a heck of a time bringing this little shrimp to the boat.”

  “You did fine.”

  “Really? Then why were you always yelling at me to keep my rod tip up?”

  “I wasn’t yelling.”

  “Ha! I thought Captain Conroy was going to fall out of his Zodiac laughing.”

  “That’s because he’d never seen anyone trying to hold a net full of struggling salmon in one hand and an armful of over-the-moon woman in the other.”

  “Don’t forget the fishing rod.”

  “It’s hard to forget holding that in my teeth,” Jake said dryly.

  It was the only thing that had prevented him from returning Honor’s excited kiss. That was just as well. He had a feeling the kiss would have gone from congratulations to raw hunger in a heartbeat. That would have been dumb.

  At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But himself wasn’t listening. In his mind, Jake kept seeing that crotch-length T-shirt Honor slept in. He couldn’t help wondering if she wore underpants beneath. Thinking about that led to other things, like what she looked like when she opened herself to a lover.

  “Hello,” she said, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Where are you?”

  For an instant he considered telling her that he had been mentally pushing her nightshirt up her hips and searching through her spicy thicket with his tongue until he found the soft woman flesh beneath.

  Dumb. Really dumb.

  “I was just thinking,” he said.

  “About dinner?”

  “Um . . . yeah. Dinner.”

  “How does pesto sound? Or would you rather stick to hot sourdough bread and salad?”

  “It all sounds good.”

  “You must be hungry.”

  “Yes,” he said curtly, stepping away from her. He was also dumber than a row of stumps for even thinking about how good it would feel to slide into her.

  “Why don’t we have some crackers and cheese right now?” Honor suggested warily. “As grouchy as you are, we’ll be at each other’s throats before the salmon is done.”

  Jake knew he was in a rough mood, just as he knew that cheese and crackers wouldn’t satisfy the hunger riding him. But food was better than what he had now.