Donovans - Pearl Cove Part 22

Very 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 prost.i.tutes. Then Len came back with cuts and bruises on his face and said, f.u.c.k 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 prost.i.tutes 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?"

"You were innocent, terrified, and completely alone. Len never should have abandoned you. That's why I was angry. It was as close as I ever came to giving Len the fight he thought he wanted, no holds barred. All that kept me from beating him unconscious was that two of us had a better chance of finding you than one."

In the dim light of the bar, Archer's eyes were narrowed, feral. Dangerous. Hannah swallowed uneasily. "I've often wondered why Len came back. At first I thought it was because he loved me. But he didn't."

"You touched everything that was good in him, Hannah. That's all anyone can ask."

Pain drew her face into taut lines that the black wig made even more grim. "It wasn't enough. I wasn't what he needed. I only made him worse."

"No."

"Yes," she countered bluntly. "After he was paralyzed he needed someone older, someone who needed him less and could help him more."

"Paralysis changed Len's body, not his soul. He wasn't an easy man when he could walk. He wasn't an easy man when he went on wheels. You didn't make him what he was. You couldn't make him different. Only Len could do that, and Len didn't want to."

"If I hadn't made him marry me "

"You didn't make him marry you," Archer cut in. "No one ever made Len do one d.a.m.ned thing he didn't want to." He glanced down toward the dim, narrow hallway where the prost.i.tute and her trick had disappeared. Nothing moved in the shadows. "Come on."

Relieved that they were leaving the depressing barroom, Hannah stood quickly. She made a sound of dismay when Archer turned her away from the front door. Instead, he urged her down the reeking hallway, opened the door to the men's bathroom, and looked around.

Empty.

Without a word he dragged Hannah past a stained urinal toward the single stall. What the place lacked in size, it made up for in sheer quant.i.ty of dirt.

"What if someone comes in here?" Hannah asked, jumpy as only a woman can be in a men's public toilet. "What will he think?"

"When you change into this, he won't have to think. He'll be sure I hauled you in here for a quickie."

While Archer talked, he rummaged in the duffel. Rapidly he pulled out a short black skirt, black lace bikini panties, and a black-and-pink striped crop top so tight there wasn't room for a bra beneath. A pair of black high-heeled sandals completed the outfit. What there was of it. Without the jacket which Archer left in the duffel there wasn't much more concealment in the clothing than in an Australian bikini.

"What is that?" Hannah asked, staring at the hot pink and black stripes.

"Clothes. Yours, to be precise."

"I don't think so."

"Screaming pink isn't my color," he said blandly, dangling the stretchy top from his index finger. "Stripes don't do much for me, either."

"I think you'd look smashing in that. Every man needs a jockstrap that looks like an embarra.s.sed tiger."

"It's not a jockstrap." He held it out to her. "It's a blouse."

"No."

"And this is the skirt that goes with it."

"Not until you tell me why."

"Pink turns me on."

"We didn't have it earlier and you did just fine."

He smiled a remembering kind of smile. "Yeah, we did. Imagine what we'll do now."

Hannah hesitated, then gave Archer a smile that made him wish they were in bed. "I'm imagining." She reached for the b.u.t.tons on her blouse. "Want to imagine with me?"

"h.e.l.l, yes. But I know better."

Reluctantly he turned his back and went to the pitted sink. If he watched her undress, he would do something really stupid, like take her right here, right now, as though she was bought and paid for with a twenty-dollar bill.

A turn of the tap told him this would be another coldwater shave. Grimacing, he pulled out the disposable razor April Joy had only sent one and shaved off his mustache with swift, painful strokes. He rinsed the sink carefully before he pulled out his own disguise and looked it over.

The change of clothes began with simple and shockingly expensive black slacks and a white silk shirt. A Krugerand on a heavy gold chain told him that he was expected to wear his shirt in the European style, unb.u.t.toned halfway to his belt. He wondered if April knew that the chain would nip and gnaw at the hair on his chest.

The shoes answered his question. Though they took up most of the s.p.a.ce in the duffel, they were a size too small.

April must have laughed herself into a coma at the thought of his discomfort. She knew everything about him, including his shoe size. She certainly knew him well enough to be sure that he wasn't the type to flash a chunk of gold against his hairy chest. But once he was dressed, he would be a fit partner for Hannah's outfit: money and barely bridled s.e.x.

When he turned around, she was struggling to zip up the skirt's back zipper. He stood where he was and stared. Just stared. He had had her naked, had licked every bit of her, and still he was rocked back by the s.e.xy sway of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the tight top and the hot curves of her long, long legs.

"Why do they put zippers in skirts this tight?" she muttered. "Why not just spray the ruddy thing on and be done with it?"

"Let me try it."

The husky timbre of Archer's voice brought Hannah's head up. The blunt male appreciation in his eyes made her feel sleek, s.e.xy, and primitive as a cat in heat. "I wish you didn't have to shave your beard."

"Why?" he asked, walking around behind her.

"I liked the feel of it... everywhere."

He gritted his teeth and tried to think of all the reasons he couldn't do what he wanted to do. What she wanted him to do. The blood hammering through his body made it almost impossible to think. Carefully he pulled up the zipper.

She cleared her throat. "Thanks. My fingers kept slipping off the tab. What's this stuff made of?" she asked, running her fingers up and down the skirt, from waist to midthigh hem. "It feels like silk, looks like silk, but doesn't wrinkle."

Archer looked away from the narrow, long fingers that were running up and down Hannah's hips. "I don't know what it is. Have you ever worn contacts?"

"Nope."

He held out a tiny box to her, explained the procedure, and demonstrated by opening a similar box and putting his own contacts in. She looked critically at the result. His gray-green-blue eyes were transformed into a muddy shade of blue.

"I like the original better."

"I'll keep it in mind," he said dryly. "Give me the wig while you put in your contacts."

Trying not to think about the appalling condition of the sink, she leaned toward the dingy mirror and went to work. She had one contact in and was blinking furiously when someone hammered on the door.

"Hey, mate," called a voice. "I gotta p.i.s.s."

Archer growled some words that made Hannah wince. She put in the other contact and looked at herself. A pair of brown eyes looked back at her.

It was unnerving.

"Put this on," he said, holding out the wig.

She looked from the neat French braid Archer had made in the wig to his blue eyes. "You keep surprising me."

"Wait until you see what I can do with cosmetics."

"You're joking."

He reached into the duffel and came up with a handful of makeup. "Tell me that in a few minutes."

A few breathless minutes later Archer stood very close while he put makeup on her Hannah looked at herself in the mirror again, made a startled sound, and leaned in closer over the sink. Like the clothes, her makeup sent a message of expensive s.e.x. Very expensive. Very s.e.xy. "You weren't joking."

Archer looked at the skirt flirting with revealing her tempting cheeks as she bent over the sink. Before he knew he was going to do it, he slid one hand up between her thighs. The skirt was like her, so tight that there was barely room for him inside.

She made a startled, husky sound as he eased aside the slim thong of her underwear and stroked soft flesh until she shivered. Her eyes met his in the mirror while liquid silk licked over his fingertips.

"I don't have much won't power where you're concerned," he said, his voice gritty.

"Won't power?" she asked huskily.

"As in I won't bend you over my arm and make you scream with pleasure."

She hesitated, then sighed. "Are you sure?"

"No," he admitted.

The hammering came on the door again.

With a curse, Archer forced himself to stop teasing both of them. "Put this on."

Hannah took the pink jacket that dangled from his big hand. It fit her perfectly. The hem of the jacket skimmed the hem of the skirt. Now she looked like ultrahigh-cla.s.s sin, the kind only kings or mafia princes could afford.

Archer whistled softly. April Joy had outdone herself. It almost made him forgive her for the black loafers that were gnawing on his toes.

"The pearls have to go," he said after a moment. "Someone who looks like you wouldn't be caught dead in anything less than the best."

Hannah made a face at him, but removed the pearls and watched them vanish into the duffel. He pulled out a tiny, sleek, black leather purse with a long braided strap and solid gold designer initials on the side. "Your pa.s.sport is inside," he said.

She froze. "Pa.s.sport?"

Rather than answering, he opened the bathroom door and ushered her out. The man pacing the hallway began swearing.

Then his bleary eyes focused on Hannah. His jaw dropped and he forgot all about the beer stretching his bladder. He stared at her until she vanished out the door into the alley.

Archer smiled rather grimly to himself as he shut the back door behind them. The man would never forget Hannah, but he wouldn't be able to describe anything more of her than the swing and sway of a very nice a.s.s.

When they were out on the street, Archer smiled. "You look very nice, Mrs. South."

"Thank you, Mr....?"

"South."

"We're married?"

"It says so on the pa.s.sports." He took a ring box from his pants pocket. "Here."

Hannah flipped open the velvet lid, stared, and looked hastily at Archer. "Are these real?"

"Probably." Considering that April Joy went shopping with Archer's money, almost certainly. April would have relished spending every dime. But there was no need to tell Hannah that. She was nervous enough about the rings as it was. "Want me to get them appraised?"

Openmouthed, she stared at the rings. The stones were set in what looked and felt like platinum cool, heavy, hard. The wedding band was a wide circlet set with flush-mounted, square, colorless diamonds. The engagement band featured a marquise-shaped silver-blue diamond that was at least three carats, set with large, triangular, colorless diamonds on either side.

"I can't wear this," she said, swallowing.

"Wrong size?" He picked up the rings and her left hand. Easily he slid the rings into place. "Nope. Perfect. Let's go, sweetheart. We don't want to miss our plane."