She hesitated, then sighed and laced her fingers more deeply with Archer’s. “Yes, some of Len was worth remembering.” She lifted his hand and brushed her lips over his knuckles. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Giving the best of Len back to me.”
Archer lifted Hannah’s chin, kissed her very gently, and hoped that both of them lived long enough to enjoy the gift.
Thirteen
Archer opened the small duffel bag that some nameless agent had left in the rental car while he and Hannah walked through Chinatown’s windswept graveyard. If April had followed directions, there should be at least two changes of clothes for them.
“This should do it for the first round,” he said.
He pulled out uncrushable white slacks and a colorful floral shirt of the kind favored by tropical tourists. The wig that went with the clothes was black and breast length. A stiffened straw pith helmet—again, a tourist favorite—and black-rimmed sunglasses completed Hannah’s outfit. He added a handful of makeup for the finishing touches. Ruthlessly he stuffed everything into the pith helmet.
“Have you ever worn a wig?” he asked, holding helmet and all out to her.
She stared at the black hair trying to crawl out of the pith helmet. “No. It looks hot.”
“It is.”
She glanced around. The coffee shop they were in held a few hardy tourists whose vacations hadn’t coincided with Broome’s cool, dry season. The rest of the people were locals who apparently had nothing better to do than smoke cigarettes and drink coffee or beer until the sun gave up its grip on the land. Seashell ashtrays overflowed, testament to the patrons’ grim dedication to killing time.
“Bathrooms are back and to the left,” he said. “I’ll meet you out on the sidewalk.”
Silently Hannah got up, leaving her coffee and a half-eaten roast beef sandwich behind. Archer stretched lazily, though his gray-green eyes searching the room were anything but indolent. No one so much as glanced in Hannah’s direction. He stood up, paid the bill, and went outside to wait.
A flock of sulfur-crested cockatoos burst from a nearby tree and swooped upward, spinning and swirling like noisy white leaves on a storm wind. After a few minutes the birds vanished into the part of the sky where the sun’s burning disk transformed humidity into a blinding curtain of light.
“The hat is too big,” Hannah said from behind him.
“When my turn comes it will be too small.”
She was still thinking that over when Archer led her to the front window of a tourist store, straightened her wig with a tug, and smiled at her haphazardly applied makeup. “You don’t wear makeup much, do you?”
“In the rain forest, men wore the paint, not women.”
He smiled. “And after the rain forest?”
“Why bother? Makeup lasts about two minutes in the tropics.”
“Not this stuff,” he said, holding up the duffel. “It’s waterproof.”
“Miraculous,” she said with a total lack of interest. “How do you get it off?”
“Oil. When we go in, pretend to be interested in the junk. But keep your sunglasses on. Your eye color is too unusual. Someone might remember it.” He thought of giving her the contacts now, and rejected it. There would be time enough later to introduce her to the tearful joys of contact lenses.
Not to mention the basics of using makeup as both art form and disguise.
Before Hannah could ask Archer why she was wearing bad makeup, a wig, and pith helmet, he walked two doors down—another bar—and vanished inside. He took the duffel with him.
Dutifully she walked into the tourist trap and looked through the goods. There were the usual kangaroo and koala designs on everything from T-shirts to teaspoons. There was a heap of tropical shells gleaming in shades of white, cream, peach, vague gold, and every tone in between. Though many of the shells were quite beautiful, she wasn’t tempted to buy any. The shells were perfect, which meant they had been taken from living animals. She would rather find her shells on the beach, imperfect.
The only thing that interested her even slightly was a display of pearls from Pinctada maxima, the most common Australian pearl oyster. The shell was as big as a turkey platter and colored inside like a gentle tropical dawn. The choker necklace resting on the shell was made of pearls as big as a thumbnail. And like a thumbnail, these pearls lacked the satin iridescence of a quality gem.
On first look the necklace was flashy and a tremendous buy. On second look it rather resembled a tiny version of china eggs, the kind women once used for darning socks or fooling hens. On third look, the necklace was way overpriced. The pearls were big and fairly round, but their luster was dismal. Like chalk.
“Need any help, luv?” asked the shopkeeper.
Hannah turned around and saw a woman wearing hair an unlikely shade of red, a T-shirt proclaiming the joys of camel riding in the moonlight, and the kind of skin that came from fifty years of sunbathing. “Uh, well . . . ”
“Oh, no,” Archer said from behind her. “You aren’t going to start whining about me buying you pearls again, are you?”
The voice wasn’t like his usual one. It was higher, long-suffering, and grudgingly indulgent.
It didn’t take Hannah two seconds to catch on. She spun around and put her hands on her hips. Her mouth was set in a hard-edged pout, which was a good thing. Otherwise it would have dropped open at the sight of him. Loud sport shirt, safari pants, and no facial fur except for a thick mustache.
“I told you, baby,” he continued. “Pearls cost more in Broome, not less.”
When Hannah spoke, it was with a pronounced whine. “I could be in Tahiti sipping gin and watching men in G-strings juggle torches, but no, you had to come to Australia. Adventure, you said. Exotic animals. Thousands of miles of pristine sugar-sand beaches. So I came, and what did I get? Mudflats, sweat, and nasty flies. But have I complained? Hell no. The least you could do is buy me some pearls!”
He looked at the choker, grimaced, and looked away. He would rather have owned the shell the pearls came from. “Too much. It would max out our plastic.”
“We’re having a special on pearls, luv,” the shopkeeper said quickly. She sized up the couple’s clothes, the irritation reddening the lady’s cheeks, and the guilt on the man’s face. “Thirty percent off. But since your sheila’s been such a good sport, I’ll make it forty.”
He looked at the pearls, hesitated, and shook his head.
“Half, then,” the shopkeeper said instantly. “You’re a shrewd man in a bargain, mate.”
Archer shook his head, but his eyes gleamed with amusement only Hannah could see, egging her on.
“Hon-ey,” she said, drawing out the endearment. Her tone was both sexy and threatening. What she threatened was an embarrassing scene if he didn’t buy the pearls. “You promised.”
With a few curses under his breath, he reached into one of the eighteen pockets decorating his wrinkled safari pants, hauled out the wallet he had seen for the first time a few minutes ago, and handed over a debit card to the shopkeeper. Hannah gave him a sultry smile, put one arm around his waist, and began whispering against his chest.
“Is that your card?” she asked.
“Never seen it before in my life.”
Her eyes widened and she asked anxiously, “Do you know the PIN number?”
“A little late to be thinking of that, isn’t it?”
She looked stricken.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He kissed her lips, then slid his tongue along them. “It’s all taken care of. Uncle is thorough.”
A few moments later Hannah left the shop with a cheap—but not inexpensive—pearl choker around her throat. Despite the inferior quality of the pearls, she liked the heavy, cool feel of them against her skin.
“What are you smiling about?” Archer asked. “You throw away better pearls than that every day.”
“Yes. But this is the first time I’ve owned any.”
/> “Out of all the pearls you’ve seeded, sorted, color-matched, doctored, you never owned one?”
“Everything that was worth selling got sold. Except for—”
“Yes,” he cut in quickly, thinking of the black rainbows. He touched the choker with gentle fingertips. “If I had known, I would have bought you a good necklace.” Then he laughed. “No, I wouldn’t have. Anyone who follows us will be looking for people who know about pearls. No one who knew anything about pearls would buy that necklace.”
She didn’t argue, but she kept smoothing her fingers over the pearls just the same, enjoying them.
Smiling, Archer looked at his watch. “Time to go.”
“Where?”
“The airport.” He handed over a small cloth purse. “Your California driver’s license and credit cards are inside if anyone wants ID at the gate.”
She blinked. “Gate. As in airplane?”
“Yeah. We’re going to Darwin.”
“Why?”
“Because when they don’t find our names on a flight out of Broome, they’ll assume we drove to Derby, so they’ll look for us there.”
“Who will be looking for us?”
“Should be interesting to find out.”
“Is that why we’re going? Just to find out if anyone follows?”
“No.”
Hannah dug in her heels and stopped. “I can’t just walk away from Pearl Cove and have a little holiday.”
“That’s what everyone thinks.”
“Except you,” she retorted. “I don’t know what you think at all.”
“I think we’ll be dead in two days—one week max—if we stay in Pearl Cove.”
A chill went over her that the sun couldn’t touch. She looked at his face, hoping he was making a bleak joke. Nothing she saw reassured her. Without the beard, the harsh beauty of his face was fully revealed: angular, balanced, strong, unflinching, framed in darkness. His eyes were clear and remote, reflecting the torrid sky. And like the sun, his eyes were relentless. The man who had laughed with her, teased her, loved her, was gone as though he had never existed.
“Very soon Flynn, Chang, and whoever else has bought in to the game will have had enough time to ransack what’s left of Pearl Cove,” Archer said calmly. “When they come up empty, they’ll have to admit that the secret to the black rainbows isn’t in the ruins. That’s when they’ll come after you.”
“But I don’t know!”
“I’m sure they’ll believe you, eventually. Unfortunately, by then you’ll know too much about who killed Len, who has been creaming Len’s pearls, and who has been laundering pearls through him. You’ll be a liability who is known to enjoy diving. Alone. If they’re feeling kind, they’ll let you die that way. If not, they’ll simply feed you to the sharks.”
Hannah opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out but a hoarse sound.
His expression gentled. He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m taking you to a safe place.”
She heard what he didn’t say. “What about you?”
“I’m a big boy.” He glanced at his watch. They were cutting it fine. “When we get on the plane, don’t talk about anything that has to do with pearls.”
“I thought you said we would be safe.”
“I’m working on it.”
Darwin had paved streets, more people, bigger buildings, and the same climate as Broome. The gunmetal sky promised rain; the inhabitants prayed for it as a temporary relief from the merciless seasonal buildup of heat and humidity. The clothes in the store windows and on the pedestrians were a decade or two more fashionable than Broome’s. Despite the punishing climate, people darted from building to building with a purpose greater than merely getting in out of the heat. Darwin didn’t have the pace of Seattle, much less of Manhattan or Tokyo, but the beat of life was faster here than Broome’s no-worries-mate indolence.
Archer looked in the window of a jewelry store, but it wasn’t the Australian pink and green diamonds that held his eye, or even the silky, lustrous Australian pearls in every shade from moon white to midnight black. What interested him was the store’s thick plate glass. It made a decent mirror, which meant that he didn’t have to crane his neck to check for followers.
The street behind them was busy enough so that he and Hannah didn’t stand out, yet not crowded enough to make a tail’s life easy. Archer was eighty percent certain that someone had followed them from the airport. April Joy’s man, probably. As the person who supplied the tickets, passports, and clothes, she was the only one who would have a clear idea who to look for and where to look for them.
“See anything, er, darling?” Hannah asked. She didn’t know what else to call Archer, because his real name didn’t match his present ID.
“Just some pretty jewelry.”
She let out a long sigh. “Good. Could we go to our hotel or wherever we’re staying?”
He smiled slightly. “Tired?”
“Hungry, too.” She glanced around furtively. “And this wig itches like fire ants.”
He looked at his watch, took her arm, and headed for one of the run-down bars he had noticed during a taxi ride along the waterfront. If anyone followed them, Archer couldn’t pick the shadow out of the pack of normal citizens.
“Here,” he said.
She glanced at the dirty neon lights flashing dim messages about beer and fun. “I’m not sure I’m this hungry,”
“We’re not here to eat.”
“Small comfort,” she muttered.
She followed him into the dim bar. It was surprisingly full of people. Most of them had the look of serious drinkers seriously intent on maintaining an alcohol haze. The air-conditioning wasn’t up to the demands of sweat and cigarettes.
“I’ve smelled better oyster dumps,” Hannah said under her breath.
Archer didn’t argue. He just kept taking her deeper into the barroom. He caught a server’s eye, held up two fingers, and pointed toward an empty booth. As soon as the server brought two beers, he paid, left a tip on the table, and kept on watching for new customers coming in the door.
Sipping her beer, Hannah looked around the bar with a combination of disbelief and sympathy. Disbelief that anyone would choose to spend time in such a hole, and sympathy that they had no more appealing choices.
The three women sitting together at the bar were especially hard for her to watch. Their hair was dyed, lacquered, and hadn’t been combed for too long. They smoked constantly, squinting through eyes that had seen too much, none of it good. Their mouths were painted on in bright, hard colors. So were their clothes.
When a man walked up, squeezed one of them low on her hip, and held up a twenty-dollar bill, the women glanced among themselves as though deciding whose cigarette break was over and who was still off duty. Finally the woman with the biggest hair tossed her cigarette on a mound of dead and dying butts and strolled toward the door at the back of the bar. The man followed, already reaching into his fly.
Hannah looked at the tired bubbles that barely covered the top of her mud-colored beer, but it wasn’t the beer she was seeing. It was the past, when a young girl had taken one look at Len McGarry and decided that he was her knight in shining armor, come to rescue her from the green dragon of the rain forest. And no matter how much the voice in the center of herself warned, Not this man, she simply ignored it.
Len was the first western man she had met in three years who wasn’t a Catholic priest, married, or old enough to be her grandfather. It was Len’s wildness that drew her. It was his laughter that convinced her. It was determination to escape the green hell that made her endure the first uncomfortable bouts of sex. It was her own sexuality that finally ignited, surprising Len even more than it surprised her.
She decided to make Len hers, and to hell with the consequences and the voice whispering inside her, Not this man. Surely nothing could be worse than eating monkey parts stewed over a sullen fire.
Ve
ry soon she discovered that there were worse things. One of them was confronting the streets of Rio de Janeiro alone and broke, seeing her own future in the jaded, opaque eyes of prostitutes. Then Len came back with cuts and bruises on his face and said, Fuck it, why not get married? It’s the one thing I’ve never done.
She was so relieved she almost blacked out. When she could focus again, she was clinging to him, watching him as though he was fire and she was freezing. She didn’t notice the other man with him until Len dragged her arms from around his neck and introduced her to Archer Donovan.
The anger in the other man’s eyes struck her like a blow. Archer didn’t want her to marry Len. She didn’t know why, but she was sure of it. Just as she was sure that something about Archer fascinated her. He watched her with such darkness, such savage intensity, silently demanding . . . what?
She didn’t know.
Couldn’t know.
Wouldn’t know.
So she turned her back on Archer and watched Len with eyes full of hope, certain that everything would turn out all right now. Yet when she dreamed that night, it was Archer’s face that haunted her, Archer’s silver-green eyes that followed her, Archer’s hands that ignited the newly discovered fires in her body.
She hadn’t understood her reaction then. She didn’t understand it now. But it was real, as real as the quickening of her heart and her body each time Archer touched her.
“What are you thinking?” he asked softly.
Hannah jolted, then sighed. “The day Len came back for me in Rio.”
He followed her glance toward the bar, where the two remaining prostitutes lit cigarettes from the smoldering ends of other cigarettes. “You wouldn’t have ended up like that.”
“I was one night away from it,” she said simply.
“Len and I were both looking for you. He found you first.”
Shocked indigo eyes focused on Archer. “He never said anything about you looking for me.”
“No, he wouldn’t have.”
“Is that why you were so angry with me when you first met me? Because you’d spent the night looking for me?”