"Oui. They go to Broome and never come back. Cable Beach, nimmm, the rooms grand and the sheets ver' cool and smooth." She took the cigarette from him, sucked deeply, and returned it. Then she licked her lips with the deliberation of a cat grooming itself. "Maybe they in bed still, yes? He is a ver' potent man. Long time since she was a woman."

Chang didn't like to think about it Hannah and Archer, the tangle of legs and musky sweat and pumping hips. "You should have called me."

"But why?" She smiled with pure malice at what she saw in Chang's expression. She asked in French, "Did you l.u.s.t to see how well he fills the hole between Sister McGarry's white legs?"

Chang flipped the burning cigarette onto the ground between Coco's bare feet. His left hand shot out and wrapped around her throat. "Don't play the b.i.t.c.h with me. I haven't time for it. Where is Hannah?"

"Where is Donovan?" Coco countered, amused.

His fingers tightened enough to leave marks on her tan skin. "If I find out that you knew more than you told me, you'll be stuck with your half sister back on an atoll in Tahiti that's smaller than your a.s.s. Do you understand nie?"

Smiling, she inched closer to Chang, brushing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against him, then her thighs. "Coco understands many things."

For a moment he was tempted to take what she was so plainly offering.

Seeing it, Coco smiled. Like the cigarette smoke curling up between her feet, her smile was cool.

Chang let go of her and stepped back a bare inch. Just enough not to feel her hard nipples against his chest. "I don't have time now. Later."

Black eyebrows rose like sleek whips. "What if I do not have time later?"

"Find it."

Coco thought of the cache of pearls she had built over the years, of the payments she had received from the Chang family, and of other payments from the pearls her half sister sold whenever Coco gathered enough to make it worthwhile. She would take Chang's money and his s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, because he was the most interesting game in town at the moment; he wanted her, but not enough to beg.

Nakamori had been hers for years, enslaved, pleading for the sweet poison he was addicted to. Flynn was too much like her; neither of them felt jealousy as other people seemed to, something to kill or die for. With Flynn there was simple s.e.xuality, a bull covering as many cows as presented themselves. All women were the same to him. Cows. Just as all men were the same to Coco. Bulls.

She would always regret that Len had died before she could find the key to seduce him. From him she would have had the secret of the black pearls that looked like Australia's famous black opals. And from him she also would have had the only emotion she felt deeply.

Fear.

Sighing, Coco stretched and rubbed herself against Chang. "C'est vrai, mon cher. Coco find time. Later."

Chang didn't bother to say goodbye. He simply turned and strode off to his car, leaving Coco with a thin wisp of cigarette smoke coiling up between her bare legs.

Before Pearl Cove vanished from his rearview mirror, Ian was calling Cable Beach hotels. Most people who demanded to know if someone was registered at a hotel would be politely told that such information wasn't given to the public. The Chang family, however, owned one hotel outright and had employees at all the others. When a Chang wanted answers, he got them.

By the time Ian sped into Broome, he knew he was in trouble. He went to his office, looked at the deceptively placid ocean until he was certain of his own self-control, and then called his father's private line.

"There is a problem," Ian said in curt Cantonese when his father came on the line.

"Increase the offer by ten percent."

"That is not the problem."

"I listen."

Ian didn't doubt it. Being listened to by Sam Chang was an experience most people didn't wish to repeat. It reminded everyone of the days when emperors were G.o.ds who anointed or executed at will.

"Hannah McGarry has vanished," Ian said baldly. "So has Archer Donovan."

The silence that came back told him that Sam was still listening.

"She is not at any hotel, motel, or rented room in Broome," Ian said.

"Not under her own name, perhaps?"

"Of course," Ian snapped. Then he reined in his impatience. He had had a lifetime to get used to one simple fact: his father thought that his Number One Son was incapable of doing anything more taxing than producing sons. It had taken five tries, but Ian had managed to get a son and heir. Unfortunately, as far as Ian was concerned, said son and heir was useless, a gambler and a wastrel whose greatest ambition was to clean out his father's and grandfather's bank accounts.

"Speak," Sam said harshly.

"Hannah McGarry is not staying in Broome under any name. No tall Caucasian woman with short sun-streaked hair and big indigo eyes has checked into any accommodation, with or without a man. No tall, muscular Caucasian man with pale eyes and short black hair and beard has checked into any accommodation, with or without a woman. Donovan's car has not been turned in to the rental agency, which means that they are probably in Derby by now. Or even Darwin."

The silence was different now. Ian couldn't say how it was different; he just knew it was. He had had many years to learn how to read his father. Right now the senior Chang was thinking hard, fast, and cruel. Ian hoped he wouldn't be on the receiving end of the cruelty, but braced for it anyway.

"Incompetence," Sam said angrily. "When will I grow accustomed to Number One Son's incompetence?"

Ian muttered the required apologies for living, breathing, and disappointing his father.

"I will find them for you," Sam said, his voice harsh. "Then you will bring me the secret of Pearl Cove."

"If I have Hannah alone, you will have your secret," Ian promised. "If Archer Donovan is with her, we will have a great problem. The Americans want him unharmed."

Sam made a curt, throaty sound possible only to a Chinese autocrat. "I will test their resolve on this Donovan."

"Please do," Ian said smoothly. "While you negotiate with the Americans, I will search Derby and Darwin for our missing p.a.w.ns."

Sam grunted. "With luck, we will not need them."

Though Ian didn't move, he came to full, quivering attention. "May I ask why?"

"The manager of my Hong Kong store called. He has seen a black pearl unlike any other. It has all the colors of life and the dark transparency of time."

"Did it come from Pearl Cove?" Ian demanded.

"No. From the American gambling city of Las Vegas."

"Where is the pearl now?"

"The swine would not sell it at any price. His wife wanted an entire necklace of such pearls."

Sam muttered in disgusted Cantonese about stupid dogs and b.i.t.c.hes in heat. "First Son, you went to Stanford in California. Tell me. Why do American men let their women run free? It is against all common sense."

"If I knew the answer to that, I would understand the West.

I do not."

Sam lit a cigarette, drew hard, and blew over the mouthpiece of the phone, setting up an odd rushing-whistling sound. "You know the answer to nothing. Why have I been cursed with seven daughters and a worthless son?"

Ian didn't know the answer to that question either.

Archer was up and working long before dawn. Lawe and Justin's suite was laid out like Archer's, with a sitting room just off the hall. Because the "boys" shared the living quarters, there were two smaller, adjoining bedrooms with big beds. Thanks to the modern, angular style of the condo building, every room had privacy and some kind of a view.

But even when dawn started sending pale streamers of light over the city, Archer didn't look up from the computer screen in front of him to admire the sight of the sleeping city coming awake. It wasn't the computer that kept his attention from the cloud-shot sunrise. There wasn't anything exciting on the screen. He had been over and over the information, seeking patterns, finding them, discarding them.

Nothing new.

At the moment, the list of telephone numbers that Len McGarry had frequently called glowed on the screen. There was a name and an address beside each one. Most of the numbers traced back to pearl farms in Western Australia. Another number led to one of the Tahitian pearl farms owned by the Chang family. Archer ignored those listings. None of Len's compet.i.tors or professional "friends" had the secret of the black pearls.

A handful of numbers belonged to high-end jewelry stores such as Sea Gems. Five numbers belonged to pearl dealers whose reputations were no better than they had to be to stay out of jail. Two numbers led back to midlevel bosses of the Red Phoenix Triad.

"What were you up to, Len?" Archer muttered. "Or were you just stirring the pot to see what floated to the top?"

Len had been good at that. The man was a trouble magnet, and he took the devil's own delight in it. If trouble didn't exist, he poked and kicked until it boiled up around him. And then he laughed, because life never rushed through him so hotly as it did when he was rocketing down the greased skids to h.e.l.l.

The computer cursor blinked patiently, waiting for its human master to do something.

Archer clicked the mouse and a new screen appeared. On it was a long list of names and dates, quant.i.ties, and enigmatic entries along the margin. The names and quant.i.ties related to pearl-production allowances, sh.e.l.l quotas, and pearl sales. He had studied enough raw data in his past service with Uncle Sam to see very quickly that the allowances and quotas had no obvious relation to the size or productivity of the pearl farms.

Some growers get a higher quota than others, according to a formula only the government can understand.

Hannah's sardonic words echoed in his mind, distracting him. He didn't want to think about her. Thinking would make the pain worse, not better. All he could do was find Len's killer and get Hannah out of his life. Maybe the ache and emptiness would go with her.

Maybe.

But he wasn't betting on it.

He dragged his mind back to the task at hand. There was nothing he could do to change what he had done in the past or her fear of him in the present.

You're like Len! d.a.m.n you, you're like Len!

Ruthless. Cold. Unworthy.

For a moment Archer's eyes closed, as though being blind would somehow make the agony less. It didn't. He accepted that, too. He had lost Hannah to Len. Twice. This time he had lost her before he ever had a real chance to win, but not before he had learned the razor stroke of love against his undefended soul.

Accept it.

Get over it.

Get on with it.

Archer's eyes opened. He stared at the information on the screen. Nothing new emerged. Pearl Cove, along with other rebellious pearl farms in every pearling zone of Western Australia, had been systematically given the short straw when it came to allotments of wild sh.e.l.l. The allotment of "domestic" sh.e.l.l, the amount of oysters a farmer could breed and raise on his own farm, had also been curtailed.

The only loophole was "experimental" sh.e.l.l, those oysters devoted to improving the breed. Not surprisingly, Len had designated forty percent of his farm as experimental. The truth was closer to seventy percent, a fact that even Hannah hadn't known. The shortfall in pearls was made up in Tahitian gems from Sam Chang's farms.

Nothing new there, either. No matter how much Archer might wish it, he no longer believed that the answer to who killed Len McGarry lay within Len's computer. Len had made enemies the way the ocean makes waves-effortlessly, inevitably. But only one of those enemies had killed him. Only one of them had the Black Trinity.

Find the Black Trinity and he would find Len's killer.

Archer rubbed his face as though to wake up some brain cells. His growing beard grated over his palms, bringing a surge of memories like molten gla.s.s.

Why do they call it beard burn when you only get it from a man who shaves?

Ill throw away my razor.

Lovely.

Tell me that in a week.

Okay.

Abruptly he shoved back from the computer and stood. He stretched hard, hoping to release the tension that kept tightening his body until he felt like he was being squeezed by a boa constrictor. He looked at his watch and wondered if Jake was up yet. He hesitated, then punched a number on the intercom.

"Yeah?" The voice was rough, relaxed, and alert.

"It's Archer. How'd you like to go one on one?"

"Only if we keep Lianne out of it. She dumped me on my b.u.t.t last time. Lord, that female is quick."

Archer smiled and felt the coils of tension loosen. "Ten minutes?"

"Five. I've been awake for an hour."

Archer heard Honor's sleepy voice in the background, followed by Jake's soothing murmur. "No, don't get up, honey. I'm just going to hammer your brother into the exercise mat."

"Kyle?" Honor asked, surprised into wakefulness. "At this hour? Kyle never gets up before eight unless the place is burning down."

"Not Kyle. Archer."

"Archer's here?"

"Morning, sis," Archer said clearly. "How's my favorite little redhead?"

"Summer?" Honor yawned. "She's asleep in the next room. Must have inherited Kyle's genes, thank G.o.d."

"She sure got your temper."

"Ha. That temper is Jake's all the way."

Conversation faded into the indistinct, soft sounds of lovers saying goodbye. Archer tried not to think of Hannah and the warm pleasures of sleeping and waking with her in his arms.

"One hour," Honor said clearly. "Then we're coming to get you."

Hannah awoke, murmured sleepily, and searched for Archer's warmth. Then she remembered his icy, brutal instruction.

I you want protection or s.e.x, punch number six.

Emotions shot through her, too many and too sharp to name. Nor did she want to name them. She didn't have to in order to shove the unruly ma.s.s down and cage it in darkness. To survive. She had had a lifetime of practice at surviving emotion.