“What about you?” Archer asked evenly.
“I’ll sell my half of Pearl Cove to whoever wants it.”
“Even if it’s Ian Chang?”
“I don’t care if it’s Satan himself. It’s over, Archer.”
He almost laughed. It wasn’t that easy to get out of the game. It never was. “I’ll write a check for your half of Pearl Cove.”
“No.” Her response was instant and certain.
“Why not?”
“People would believe you know the secret of making black rainbows. You’d be a target. Like Len.”
“I have more friends than Len did.”
Her chin came up and her mouth flattened. “I want you out of this, Archer. All the way out. I have to know that I didn’t lead you to your death.”
“I don’t lead worth a damn. Ask anyone. I’ll pay you a million for Pearl Cove.”
“I won’t sell it to you at any price.”
Archer’s eyebrows rose. “Fine. Call Ian Chang. He’ll buy your half.”
“So he can kill you for your half? I’m stupid, Archer, but eventually I learn. I don’t want you killed for a handful of bloody pearls.”
“According to Yin, Chang isn’t the problem.”
“What?”
“Just before everything went from sugar to shit, Yin told me he got the pearls from Christian Flynn.”
For a moment Hannah’s ears rang as though someone had just fired a shotgun ten feet from her head. “Christian? I don’t believe it.”
Archer could. He had seen Flynn move, felt the calluses along the edge of his palm. “Let’s have a look at the pearls.”
She glanced down at the box she still clutched in her hands. For the first time she realized that her fingers ached from their death grip on the cheap wood. She stared at the box. At that instant she hated black pearls and everything they stood for.
“Even if you put it all down the garbage disposal, nothing would change,” Archer said, reading her expression accurately.
Hannah shuddered. He was right. But if the garbage disposal would have solved the problem, she would have shoved everything down it and smiled while steel ground incomparable black rainbows to dust.
“I need nonincandescent light and a table,” she said thinly. “The breakfast nook’s light is wrong.”
The tight, edgy quality of her voice made Archer ache. “Sell out. Get out. You’re too gentle for the game.”
“The name of this game is survival. If I’m too gentle for it, I’ll bloody well die.”
“Hannah.” Just that. Her name. It was all he could think of to say.
The line of her shoulders told him it didn’t matter what he said. She wasn’t going to budge.
“There’s a suitable table in my—your—suite,” she said, striding down the hall. “I think the light on the night table is fluorescent.”
Archer knew it was. Silently he followed her, ignoring the sting from the cuts on his face and the dull aches where bullets had slammed into Kevlar, bruising the much more fragile flesh beneath the high-tech fibers. It was far harder to ignore the rain-wet silk plastered to Hannah’s body in a way that told him she wore nothing beneath but skin. He wondered if it was the same beneath her jeans: bare, beautiful skin.
The adrenaline of battle shifted into a different kind of readiness, his body humming with heat and life. While she set up the lamp on the coffee table in the sitting room, he had time to think about how quickly she had dressed, how much she might have left behind. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing that Kevlar shorts stretched like regular underwear.
When she bent over to spread out the pearls, the black silk clung to her breasts, outlining her erect nipples. A drop of water went from the ends of her dark hair to her neck, and from there to the soft, pale hollow of her throat.
Archer swallowed hard and looked away. He fought a brief, bitter battle for self-control. When he could no longer count his heartbeats in his crotch, he focused on the pearls Hannah had spread across the table. Without a sorting screen, he couldn’t be certain, but they looked like they went from twelve to sixteen millimeters. There were at least two hundred of the iridescent black gems. Perhaps as many as three hundred.
Even if there had been only one third that number, he had made a hell of a buy.
Stretching the thumb and index fingers of both hands as wide as she could, she gathered the pearls into a group and nudged them along the table, watching how they moved. Her hands were too small to corral all the pearls.
“Here.” Archer knelt across from her and helped her to form a bigger rectangle around the pearls with his hands. “Better?”
The huskiness of his voice sent a flick of fire over Hannah’s nerve endings. Not trusting herself to look at him, not knowing what she would do if she saw desire in his eyes, she said, “Roll them.”
Together they eased their hands across the table, herding gleaming pearls within the rough rectangle their fingers created. She watched intently. There were no obvious culls, no pearls that lurched or staggered. She divided out one third of the gems.
“Roll those while I watch,” she said.
Under Hannah’s directions, Archer rolled and spun the pearls while she watched for any less-than-spherical gems. It would have been easier with the slanting table used in pearl-sorting rooms, but this way worked almost as well. Pearls had been sorted by hand long before slanted tables were used.
“Round,” she said finally. “Not a wobbler in the lot. No obvious imperfections, but I’ll check them individually. The orient is good. Excellent.”
“So tell me. Did I buy the Black Trinity wrapped in a cheap rubber band?”
She bit her lip. She very much wanted these to be the Black Trinity, to have it over with. Finished.
She was very much afraid it wasn’t.
“Do you want a loupe?” Archer asked.
“Do you have one?”
Instead of answering, he went in the bedroom. There he opened the belly drawer of his desk and pulled out the handy little magnifying glass jewelers used. Cleaning it on his flannel shirt, he went back to the living room.
Without looking away from the pearls, Hannah took the loupe. But she felt the casual touch of his fingers all the way to her toes. There was a fine trembling in her fingers when she opened the glass and put it to her eye.
Archer sat down to take off his wet shoes and socks. His jeans were also wet, but he didn’t trust himself to take them off and not reach for her.
For a long time there was no sound but the soft click of pearls being picked up and returned to the table, one after the other. When Hannah was finally finished, she looked up. He was watching her with eyes that were patient and something more, something elemental. Hot. An answering heat snaked through her.
“Well?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. These are the final culls, the ones that were replaced within the strands when more perfect color matches were discovered in each new harvest.”
Archer looked down at the deeply iridescent, darkly mysterious pearls. He whistled softly. “These are culls?”
“Len’s god was a demanding god. Perfection or hell.”
“So we’re back where we started from,” he said.
“Not quite.”
“What do you mean?”
“These pearls were kept with the Black Trinity.”
Archer went still. “You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be without knowing Len’s hiding place. But I can’t think he had more than one.”
“For all his special pearls?”
She nodded.
“How many does he have?”
“Rainbow pearls?”
“Yes.”
“Even after he ground up the less-than-perfect ones, there must have been at least a thousand left, plus the Black Trinity.”
“A small hiding place, then. One that is within reach of a wheelchair and proof against professional
searches and natural disasters like cyclones.”
“I never thought of it that way, but . . . yes.”
“That’s why you called me, Hannah. To think like Len.” His voice was cool and remote.
She watched his long finger gently rolling a pearl back and forth, back and forth. A stark memory ripped through her: a gun barrel poking out of the wall, pointing at Archer and the table where money was stacked like poker chips in a deadly game. There had been no time for her to think, to reason, to plan. There had only been the certainty of his death and her scream tearing her throat as she threw herself at him and knocked him aside.
Then the bullets thudding home, making him jerk against her as they lay tangled on the floor.
Abruptly Hannah stood and combed back her damp hair with fingers that shook. She wouldn’t think of what had happened. She couldn’t or she would scream again. Somehow she had to force herself to be as calm as he was, to accept that murder was as much a part of life as safety.
Yet when she looked at him, she ached with the emotions that were buried inside her, clawing to be free. His face was shadowed by black stubble and something much darker. His hands were big, hard, and very careful with the fragile pearls. His shoulders were straight despite the weariness that she had seen in his eyes. She wanted to go to him, touch him, kiss him, sink into him even as he sank into her, to forget everything but the heat and vitality of him; and she wanted it so much she could barely stand.
And she feared wanting him. She feared showing vulnerability to a man as hard as Len had been.
The sound Hannah made was small, but it brought Archer’s head up sharply. He saw the wet silk painted to her body, saw her tight nipples and soft mouth, her indigo eyes as wild as any storm.
“Don’t think about it,” he said quietly. “It’s over. Everyone is safe.”
She simply wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would say that she wanted him. Then he would take her down to the floor and show her again the difference between making love and having sex. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to survive another lesson.
Yet she needed him until she shook with it.
He stood, went into the bedroom, and came back with a towel as big as a sofa. “You’re cold. Dry off and crawl into bed. Your body is still on Aussie time. You can’t tell whether you’re coming or going.”
She tried to unwrap her arms and let go of herself, but it was too difficult. She simply shook her head instead.
“Hannah.”
The word was whispered against her temple. The heat of Archer’s breath made her tremble.
“You’re shaking.” He pulled the towel around her and rubbed briskly. “You need a hot shower, warm clothes, and a long—”
“You,” she interrupted. “I need you.”
His hands paused. He looked at her eyes. They were wild and wary, hesitant and hungry, so beautiful his heart turned over. “Sex, Hannah?”
She closed her eyes. “If that’s what you have, I’ll take it.”
“What if I have more?”
Tears slid from beneath her thick lashes. She wanted more. And she was terrified of it.
“Never mind,” he whispered. “Never mind. It’s all right. Just sex.”
Even with her eyes closed, she knew Archer was bending down to her mouth. She could feel the shift of his body, the heat of his breath, the sliding pressure of his lips over hers as she opened for him. The taste of him was sweet lightning. The need of him was thunder shaking her.
She grabbed him and pulled him closer still. Her fingers raked down his jacket, only to be caught by holes in the cloth. She went still, remembering, reliving it all again.
“Change your mind?” Archer asked, lifting his mouth from hers.
“Holes,” she said raggedly. “There are holes in your jacket. From the bullets.”
He saw the stark memories in her eyes, felt fear turning her pliant flesh to stone. With a few swift movements he peeled off his jacket and tossed it aside. He was more careful removing the gun and holster, but no less quick. When he reached for his dark flannel shirt, her hands were already there, tearing away cloth that also carried neat, horrifying holes. Her strength surprised him. Her need stopped his breath.
The Kevlar defeated her. It had no buttons, no zippers, no surface to tear.
“Like this.” Archer took her hand, showed her, watched her rip Velcro fastenings apart until he wore nothing but briefs.
Then he wore nothing at all.
The humming sound of approval she made as she cupped him stripped away his control as certainly as she had stripped away his clothing. He no longer tried to control the adrenaline, the need, the desperation for her. With swift, casual power he knelt and peeled her jeans down to her ankles. That was when he discovered that he had been right. She hadn’t taken time to put on underwear.
He pulled her hard against his mouth, then made a deep sound in his throat. She tasted as hot and reckless as he felt. The twisting motions she made trying to kick out of her jeans opened her to him even more. He took it all, demanded more. Heedless, helpless, she gave it to him, too shocked by the searing demands of his mouth to do more than wonder that she had lived so long and never known this way to love.
Before her feet were free of her jeans, he drove her ruthlessly to the first climax. When her knees buckled he didn’t release her. He followed her down to the floor, opening her even more while cries rippled and she writhed and he took, he gave, he demanded, he worshiped; and she came until she couldn’t even draw breath to scream.
It wasn’t enough.
Fighting to breathe, she reached for him, trying to draw him up her body, needing what he hadn’t yet given to her.
He pinned her where she was, on her back, her legs over his shoulders. Her eyes opened wild and blind as he fitted himself to her and went in deep, hard. With quick, powerful motions he measured himself and her until his name came from her lips with each ragged breath and she convulsed around him, a slick satin fist demanding that he give everything he had to her. Body rigid, shaking, he bared his teeth and gave himself to the endless, pulsing violence of his own release.
Archer’s sudden, slack weight on Hannah sent another shimmering wave of pleasure through her. With a hunger that she didn’t understand, she stroked his back and shoulders and hips, memorizing the feel of him in her arms. When his breathing finally settled into a normal rhythm, he started to shift his weight off her. She wrapped herself around him and hung on.
“More?” he asked.
She shook her head and didn’t loosen her grip at all.
“Not ready to be alone yet?” he guessed.
She nodded.
“I promised myself a nice long shower,” he said. “Best thing for bruises. How about you?”
“Now that you mention it . . .” She winced. “I landed under you in that ruddy café.”
“I put you there.” He rolled over slowly, taking her with him. “It was the only way I could protect you.”
Her breath stopped, then resumed with a husky sound. He was still buried deeply in her, filling her. “I don’t want you to do that anymore.”
“This?” he asked, deliberately stroking himself deep.
“No. Putting yourself in danger to protect me.”
“Does that mean you’re going to stop protecting me?” Archer asked.
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Wrong answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re going to get.”
“Same here.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. Then she shivered when he lifted his hips against her with a slow, rolling motion. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
She bit her lip against admitting it, but the kick of her heart against his mouth gave her away. He smiled, then groaned when she slipped through his arms and stood up.
“Let me take care of you, Archer,” she said, holdi
ng out her hand. “Just this once. Let me.”
Without a word he followed her into the shower. When the water was beating down hot enough to cook, he sighed and relaxed, letting the water take the worst of the aches from his body. Then her hands flowed over him, bringing a different kind of ache; not pain but something deeper, a pleasure whose piercing sweetness was like silver lightning stitching through his soul. She did no more than soap him, rinse him, sleek her hands down him to take off the excess water—and he felt as though he had walked into a bare electrical wire.
She turned away, shutting off the water. When she faced him again, he couldn’t conceal the vital hardening of his body, the blunt physical need that made her eyes widen. Hunger poured through her like a firestorm. She took his hand and led him toward the bed. The coolness of the room after the steamy shower made her shiver. She didn’t even notice it. At that moment, nothing existed for her but Archer.
“I didn’t know if you still would—” she began, but her breath backed up before she could finish.
The smokiness of her voice and her eyes made him feel like he had been stroked from head to heels. “If I would what?”
“Want. Like me.”
His smile was a razor acceptance of the pain that would come when she no longer wanted him. “When it’s you, Hannah, I’ll want until I can’t. And then I’ll still want.”
“Then let me,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing. This. Everything.”
She tasted his chin, his shoulders, his nipples, the median line of his body where water had gathered and slid down past his waist. And like water, she flowed down him. Her mouth was open, a heat that healed even as it burned. He gave an involuntary shudder when her tongue traced his erection.
“I’m told men like this. Do you?” Hannah asked.
“Yes. But it’s not necessary unless you—” his breath ripped and his head spun as she sucked lightly on him “—like it, too,” he finished hoarsely.
Pearl Cove Page 35
