Pearl Cove

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “I mean the Chang family,” Archer finished.

  Discomfort forgotten, Lianne scooted around until she was sitting between both brothers. “All right. The Aussies have damn few export products worth as much as pearls. They’re worried about losing out to the Chinese. How would killing Len improve the Australian position in the pearl market?”

  “If Len had a covert alliance with the Changs,” Archer said, “the Aussies had good reason to fear that he would turn over the secret of the black rainbows to the Chinese.”

  “Which would give China a lock on all levels of the pearl trade,” Lianne said. “Good-bye Aussie leverage. But Len had to know the Chang family was screwing him. Why would he give them anything as precious as the rainbow pearls?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Archer said. “He would just let the Changs think he was going to. I’m sure he was dangling the same lure in front of the Aussies. Otherwise they would have driven him out of business years ago. Len was a big thorn in their jockstrap.”

  “Ouch,” Kyle muttered. “What about the Japanese? They can’t be happy either way.”

  Archer shrugged. “Japan doesn’t have any warm oceans to grow South Seas pearls in or any chance of acquiring that kind of real estate, short of World War Three. They’re hanging on to as much of their pearl sales monopoly as they can. Again, the high-end stuff is slipping away from them. Again, it’s the Changs who are taking over. If the Japanese knew about Len’s pearls, they’d want them.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Lianne asked. “I love jade, but that pearl you showed me was extraordinary.”

  She leaned against Kyle’s shoulder and stared at the screen. The twins went into overdrive. She sighed and shifted again. This time she rested her round belly on Archer. Feeling the tattoo of life against his arm, he turned and smiled at Lianne.

  “Isn’t it time for their nap?” he teased.

  “In my dreams.” She grabbed his hand and put it on the most active twin. “Here, Uncle Archer. Soothe the savage beasts while Daddy slays the computer dragon.”

  Obediently Archer stroked over Lianne’s big belly, pausing to savor the bump and seethe of hidden life before he stroked again soothingly.

  Archer didn’t know that he had a small, almost dreamy smile on his face, but Hannah did. She stopped in the doorway to the suite and stared, frozen. The contrast between the hard planes of his stubble-shadowed face and the tenderness of his smile was shocking. The difference between his muscular body and the care of his hand soothing his petite and visibly pregnant sister-in-law was equally shocking.

  The child will know his or her cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Most of all, the child will know me.

  Archer’s words echoed and reechoed in Hannah’s mind, making her dizzy. She had assumed he was threatening her because he was angry. Now she realized that he had simply told the truth. Whether she liked it or not, whether she trusted him or not, he would be a part of their child’s life.

  If there was a child.

  “Ah, see?” Lianne said, laughing softly. “The little devils are settling down. You’re in for a lifetime of baby-sitting, Archer.”

  “Doesn’t scare me a bit. When they get big and ornery, I’ll give them back to you.”

  Kyle snickered. “I’m going to teach your kids how to make mud pies in the linen cupboard.”

  “Is that the worst thing you ever did?” Hannah asked from the doorway.

  At her first word, Archer changed as he had in the gym, withdrawing into himself so completely that Hannah could almost hear the doors closing and bolts slamming home. He became again the man she feared, cool and ruthless, watching her with emotionless eyes.

  “Sorry,” she said, drawing back. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “No problem,” Kyle said without looking up from the computer screen. “You must be Hannah. I’m Kyle, and the beautiful Munchkin draped against Archer is my wife, Lianne. I’d introduce you to the twins, but we haven’t picked their names yet.”

  “Twins?” Hannah asked.

  She didn’t hear the wistfulness in her own voice, but Lianne did. “Two of them,” she said. “At least, that’s what my doctor is saying. At the rate I’m growing, I’m wondering about triplets.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Kyle said.

  She leaned over against him and whispered something that made her husband smile. He gave her a promising-remembering kind of look along with a grin. “I’ll take a rain check on that,” he said, “but not for long.”

  Archer didn’t say anything. He simply watched Hannah standing in the door with the elegance of a dancer and the mouth of a siren calling to her man. The travel-wilted clothes she wore couldn’t conceal the curves and hollows, the lure and the promise of her body. Distance couldn’t conceal the deep wariness in her eyes, the tension that radiated from her when she looked at the man she didn’t trust. The man she feared. The man who wanted her so much he had to remind himself to breathe every time he saw her unexpectedly.

  Motionless, Archer waited, praying that none of the emotions seething beneath his calm showed through. But they must have, because Hannah took another step backward. At her retreat, his eyelids flinched in a reaction that was as involuntary as it was painful.

  Deliberately he turned back to the computer, not wanting to look any longer at the woman he loved backing away from him.

  “If control of the high-end pearl market wasn’t motivation enough for Len’s murder,” Archer said neutrally, “our half brother had a talent for making enemies. Hannah could tell you more about that than I could. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Len is dead and the black rainbows are gone. Find them and you’ll find Len’s murderer.”

  With a smooth, powerful surge, Archer came to his feet. “That’s why I brought Hannah here. She needs protection while I find the pearls.”

  “Protection? Why?” Lianne asked, turning to Hannah.

  “Whoever killed Len thinks I have the secret of making the black rainbows,” she said. The words came out tight, almost harsh, so curt that Lianne frowned. “I don’t.”

  “Until Len’s murderer is found,” Archer said, “she’s at risk.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be back by dinner.”

  “You better be,” Kyle said. “Dad will want to talk to you.”

  “Hannah knows more about Len than I do.”

  “What I know, your father doesn’t want to hear.” Abruptly Hannah fell silent, thinking of a graveyard in Broome, when Archer had asked her to remember the good things and let go of the bad.

  “I’ve already answered Dad’s questions about Len,” Archer said as though she hadn’t spoken. “There are more useful things for me to do than hash over a past neither one of us can change.”

  He walked toward the door as though Hannah wasn’t blocking it.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, watching Archer approach. Her voice was husky with memories and something she refused to recognize as hope.

  He stopped very close to her, expecting her to back away. She didn’t. “To see a man about some pearls.”

  “Len’s pearls?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “No.” The word was smooth and cold, leaving no room for argument or interpretation.

  “You need me to—”

  “No,” he cut in. “Not now. Not ever. Not in any way.”

  Kyle and Lianne exchanged looks. They hadn’t ever seen Archer like this, leaving ice burns with a few deadly calm words.

  “Ah, Hannah,” Kyle said, trying to defuse the explosion he sensed coming.

  “If you think I’m letting you go after the Black Trinity on your own,” Hannah said in a low, savage voice, “you’re as crazy as Len was.”

  “Big as Len, cold as Len, and now as crazy as Len. Looks like your husband didn’t die after all.” Archer shrugged. “Too bad, Hannah. You’ll just have to trust me not to take the Black Trinity and leave you flat broke.”

  The ca
lm words infuriated Hannah as much as having Archer look at her like a stranger, as though they had never fused together in a naked tangle of limbs, hearts beating wildly, hands gripping, minds empty of all but urgency and ecstasy.

  If you want protection or sex, punch number six.

  “You wouldn’t know the Black Trinity if it walked up and bit you on your bum,” she said distinctly.

  “It doesn’t take a color-matching genius to recognize one of Len’s experimental pearls.”

  “One of them, sure. Even a color-blind cat could do that. But how will you be sure any rainbows you find were once part of the Black Trinity?” she asked.

  “Len didn’t let any of his special pearls out.”

  “But some got out anyway. You bought one yourself. You know there must be others.”

  Archer did, and didn’t want to admit it, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Hannah’s smile was all thin edges. “No one, not even a ruthless, clever man like Len, could prevent some of the black rainbows from leaking out. How will you know if you find pieces of the Black Trinity or just whatever was skimmed from the sorting shed or stolen from the experimental rafts?”

  Silence stretched between them like a wire that kept getting tighter and tighter until it hummed with tension.

  “You’ll be safer here,” Archer said finally.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Not trusting me could cost your life.”

  “My life. My choice.”

  For just an instant something showed in Archer’s eyes. He dropped his voice so that only she could hear. “Not quite, Hannah. There’s the small matter of pregnancy.”

  “I could be as pregnant as Lianne and it wouldn’t change the facts,” she said in a voice as low as his. “You need me to find Len’s killer. I need you to keep me alive while I’m doing it. End of discussion.”

  Silence stretched again. “You know,” Archer said casually, “it’s a bloody miracle Len didn’t leave visible scars on you to go with the invisible ones.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. And Len. He never argued with anything but his fists.”

  “I didn’t argue with Len. He knew too many ways to make me lose.”

  “But you don’t mind going toe to toe with me at every opportunity.”

  “You won’t hurt me. Not like Len.”

  “I know. I’m just surprised that you do. You have ten minutes to make yourself up like my mistress.”

  “Your mistress? Why?”

  “Why else would you be hanging around with a rich, ruthless man you don’t like?” Archer smiled without any warmth, just a row of hard white teeth.

  Her chin came up and her shoulders squared for battle. “I’m no bloody good with makeup.”

  “I am. Remember?”

  An involuntary shiver went over Hannah. She hadn’t forgotten the horrid public toilet where Archer had stood close to her, so close, their breath mingling as he applied makeup to her with deft touches. And then she had turned to look in the mirror, and his hand had slid beneath her tiny skirt, touching her just once, slowly. It had been enough. She had turned to liquid and kissed his finger as gently as it kissed her.

  “Yes,” she whispered, shivering again. “I remember. Damn you, I remember.”

  But she was talking to Archer’s back. He had already brushed past her and into the hall.

  Nineteen

  Seattle’s Pearl Exchange was an extraordinary mix of raw hustle and silky elegance. Unaffiliated traders, shop owners, luxury stores, people looking for a bargain, and salesmen looking for a mark all came together in a concrete hive six stories tall. Hannah hadn’t seen anything like it, even the August Pearl Festival in Broome, when imported high-fashion models strolled down runways wearing European haute couture and millions of dollars worth of borrowed Australian pearls.

  The lower floors of the Pearl Exchange were for tourists and people new to the allure of pearls. The sales outlets on those floors were little more than stalls placed around the perimeter of the building. The center was taken up with a maze of stalls. Strands of pearls dangled from every possible variety of hook, knob, rod, and handle.

  “. . . finest of Japanese pearls, fresh from the sea to you. Note the delicate blush of pink against the flawless . . .”

  The woman’s voice faded beneath others, but the sales patter made Hannah lift her skillfully darkened brows. Archer’s skill, not hers. And if she had gotten light-headed standing so close to him, breathing his scent, all but tasting him, it was her problem. Obviously he didn’t have one. His hand had been steady while he’d stroked cosmetics over her face.

  Impatiently she tugged at the forest-green dress she had borrowed from Honor. The dress kept trying to creep up her hips. Hannah was an inch taller and at least two inches more around the bust and hips than Archer’s sister. As a result, the silk sheath dress fit too well. She was certain her hips were stretching the seams across the butt. The bra she had borrowed made the most of her breasts, pressing them front and center so that they mounded above the scoop of the neckline.

  Borrowed jewelry finished out the picture of a well-shaped, well-kept woman. To keep up with—or live down to—the new image, Hannah had switched the blue diamond wedding set to her right hand. The rest of her jewelry was also borrowed. She hoped that Susa truly wouldn’t mind a stranger wearing her diamond-and-citrine rope and diamond stud earrings.

  Impatiently Hannah ran her hands over her hips again, trying to coax the dress to lengthen by an inch or two. Then she made herself stop fussing. She was supposed to be for sale, wasn’t she? Or at least up for a short-term lease.

  Archer certainly looked the part of a man who could afford to keep her. Though he had dumped the Euro-silk and Krugerand, the handmade pearl-gray Egyptian cotton shirt he was wearing didn’t look like a Kmart special. Nor did the black wool slacks and soft leather shoes. The thick black stubble on his face set off his pale eyes and the clean line of his mouth. A black Gore-Tex jacket with high-tech fleece lining was carelessly folded over one arm. The jacket was Honor’s, on loan to Hannah.

  The stubble should have made Archer look badly groomed. Instead, he looked so sexy she was having trouble keeping her hands to herself.

  When Hannah realized that she was staring at Archer’s mouth, remembering what it felt like all over her, she forced herself to focus on the pearls and ignore the explosion of heat deep inside her, heat turning her bones and her body to warm honey. After a few moments she managed to see the booth in front of her. It was draped with pearl jewelry. The pearls were six to eight millimeters in size and of one dominant hue. Pink.

  “Akoya rules here,” she said. “They didn’t stint on the pink dye, either.”

  “Americans like pink.”

  Hannah picked up a strand and ran it through her fingers. “Decent surface. Uneven drill holes. Poor depth of nacre. Adequate matching. Good graduation in size.”

  “Japan has tons of Akoya pearls,” Archer said. “Literally. Size matching is rarely a problem.”

  Relieved to find something neutral to talk about, she dove into the discussion. “Color matching shouldn’t be a problem either, if the stalls on this floor are any example. If the pearl doesn’t look good, throw it back in the pink dye for a while longer. Or the black. How can they sell this?” she asked, holding up a steel-colored string of dyed pearls. “Ball bearings would have more character. If you want black, stick to the South Seas. The color comes from the oyster, not from a chemical bath.”

  He didn’t pick up the conversational ball. Instead, he watched the room around them with eyes as clear and hard as diamonds. It beat watching Hannah fidget and wiggle in Honor’s clothes—clothes that had never looked like that on his sister. It was all he could do to keep from lowering his head and running his tongue deep into the cleavage that was so nicely displayed.

  Irritated by his body’s relentless hunger for the woman who had no use for him beyond sex and protection, Archer turned his
back and forced himself to focus on the room. The tail they had picked up as soon as they left the condominium was somewhere in the crowd behind them, fingering pearls as though she cared. The man who was with her didn’t even pretend to care. He looked at everything but pearls.

  Wistfully Hannah ran her fingertips over strands of gleaming dyed pearls. It had been nice to have a neutral conversation with Archer, if only for a few moments. Perhaps he could be lured back into it.

  “Culturing pearls,” she said, “inserting a bead, feeding and scrubbing the oyster for a year or two, then harvesting and grading the pearl—I understand that. Once the seed is in place, the oyster is responsible for the color and luster of the pearl. How can they call this kind of manufactured dyed stuff pearls?”

  “No problem.” Deciding their shadow was harmless, Archer turned back and faced the woman who could pierce his self-control with a word, a touch, a look. “Some folks are calling imitation pearls ‘semicultured.’ ”

  “That’s deceptive.”

  “That’s business. Let the buyer beware. Besides, pearl growers aren’t eager to get into a public pissing contest over cultured versus manufactured. Then people might start asking at what point a cultured pearl becomes a manufactured one.”

  “When you add or subtract color,” Hannah retorted.

  “Not to the Japanese. Or the Chinese, for that matter. Then there are the Arabs. To them, cultured is manufactured. Imitation. And we’re not even touching on Majorica ‘pearls.”’ He tipped his head toward the next booth.

  “Glass beads dipped in fish scales and glue,” she said, dismissing the legitimacy of the Majorica process.

  “The people who produce Majoricas call the dip ‘pearl essence,’” he said blandly.

  “More like essence of bull dust.”

  “At least Majoricas have a brief history to recommend them. They’ve been made for a hundred years, they’re heavier than plastic, cooler to the touch, and more expensive to buy.”

  “But still imitation. Not pearl.”

  He didn’t argue the point. No part of a Majorica “pearl” had ever seen an oyster.