The Reef (11 page)

“You're well aware of it. Artifacts from the
Santa Marguerite.
We've been excavating for weeks. We have a legitimate claim.”

He studied her face with obvious interest. It was always a pleasure for him to observe someone so animated and bold, particularly when he had already won. He pitied those who didn't appreciate the true challenge of the business deal, and the true triumph of winning. “There may be some confusion about that. The claim.” He pursed his lips, then sampled his champagne. “We are in free water here. The government often disputes such things, which is why I contacted them several months ago to apprise them of my plans to dig here.” He drank again. “It's unfortunate you weren't informed. Of course, when I arrived I did notice that someone had been poking about. But then, there was no one here.”

Several months ago, my ass, Tate thought, but forced herself to speak calmly. “We had an accident. One of our team is in the hospital.”

“Oh, how unfortunate. Treasure-hunting can be a dangerous business. It's been a hobby of mine for some years now. I've been quite lucky all in all.”

“The
Sea Devil
was left here,” Tate continued. “Our markers were here. The rules of salvage—”

“I'm willing to overlook the impropriety.”

Her mouth fell open. “
You're
willing?” The hell with
calm. “You jump our claim, you steal artifacts and records from our boats—”

“I don't know anything about this property you're missing,” he interrupted. His voice firmed, as it would with a difficult underling. “I suggest you contact the authorities on Saint Kitts or Nevis about that.”

“You can be sure I will.”

“Sensible.” He plucked the champagne from its silver bucket, poured more into his glass, into Yvette's. “Don't you care for Taittinger's?”

Tate set the flute down with a snap. “You're not going to get away with this. We found the
Marguerite,
we worked her. One of our team nearly died. You're not going to sail in and take what's ours.”

“Ownership in such matters is a foggy area.” He paused a moment to study the wine in his glass. And ownership, of course, was what life was all about. “You can of course dispute it, but I'm afraid you'll be disappointed with the outcome. I have a reputation for winning.” He beamed at her and stroked a fingertip down Yvette's gleaming arm. “Now,” he said and rose. “Perhaps you'd like a tour. I'm very proud of the
Triumphant.
She has some very unique features.”

“I don't give a damn if you've done the head in solid gold.” Her own control surprised her as she rose and stared him down. “Fancy boats and a European flair don't negate piracy.”

“Sir.” The steward cleared his throat politely. “You're wanted forward.”

“I'll be along in a moment, André.”

“Yes, Mr. VanDyke.”

“VanDyke,” Tate repeated, and her stomach trembled. “Silas VanDyke.”

“My reputation precedes me.” He seemed only more pleased that she knew of him. “How remiss of me not to have introduced myself, Miss . . .”

“Beaumont. It's Tate Beaumont. I know who you are, Mr. VanDyke, and I know what you've done.”

“That's flattering.” He lifted his glass, toasting her
before finishing off the frothy wine. “But then, I've done many things.”

“Matthew told me about you. Matthew Lassiter.”

“Oh, yes, Matthew. I'm sure he has spoken, none too kindly, of me. And since he has, you're probably aware that there is one particular item that interests me.”

“Angelique's Curse.” Her palms might have been damp, but Tate lifted her chin. “Since you've already killed for it, stealing shouldn't be an obstacle.”

“Ah, young Matthew's been filling your head with nonsense,” he said pleasantly. “It's understandable that the boy had to blame someone for his father's accident, particularly when his own negligence might have caused it.”

“Matthew isn't negligent,” she snapped back.

“He was young, and hardly to blame. I might have offered to help them financially at the time, but I'm afraid he was unreachable.” He moved his shoulders gently. “And as I said, Miss Beaumont, treasure-hunting is a dangerous business. Accidents happen. I can make one thing very clear for all of us, however. If the amulet is on the
Marguerite,
it's mine. As is anything else she holds.” The light in his eyes was brighter now, chillingly gracious. “And I always take, and treasure, what's mine. Isn't that true,
ma belle?
”

Yvette ran a hand down one gleaming thigh. “Always true.”

“You don't have it yet, do you?” Tate walked to the rail. “And we'll see who holds the rights to the
Santa Marguerite.
”

“I'm sure we will.” VanDyke turned the empty flute in his hands. “Oh, and Miss Beaumont, be sure to give the Lassiters my regards, and my regrets.”

Tate heard him chuckling as she dived into the water.

“Silas.” Yvette lighted another cigarette and snuggled down in her chaise. “What was that annoying American babbling about?”

“Did you find her annoying?” With a pleased smile, Silas watched Tate swim strongly back to the
Adventure.
“I didn't. I found her fascinating—young, foolishly bold
and rather sweetly naive. In my circles, I rarely come across such qualities.”

“So.” Yvette blew out smoke, sulked. “You think she's attractive with her skinny body and hair like a boy.”

Because his mood was mellow, VanDyke sat on the edge of the chaise and prepared to placate. “Hardly more than a child. It's women who interest me.” He touched his lips to Yvette's pouty ones. “You who fascinate me,” he murmured, reaching behind to tug loose the knot of her brief top. “That's why you're here,
ma chère amie.
”

And would be, he thought as he cupped one of her perfect breasts in his hand. Until she began to bore him.

Leaving Yvette's feathers smoothed, VanDyke rose. With a smile, he watched Tate pilot the
Adventure
toward St. Kitts.

There was something to be said for youth, he thought. It was something even his money, and his business skills couldn't buy. He had a feeling it would take a long, long time for someone as fresh as Tate Beaumont to grow tedious.

He strolled forward, a hum on his lips. There, his divers had spread the latest haul over a tarp. His heart began to sing. What was there, corroded, calcified or gleaming, was his. Success. Profit for investment. It was only more thrilling that it had belonged to the Lassiters.

No one spoke as VanDyke knelt and began to pick through the booty with his jeweled and manicured fingers. It was so satisfying for him to know that he had brought up treasure while the brother of James Lassiter had been fighting for his life.

It only enhanced the legend, didn't it? he mused as he lifted a cob coin, turned it in his hand. Angelique's Curse would strike them down, strike all down who searched for it. But him.

Because he'd been willing to wait, to bide his time, to use his resources. Time and again, his business sense had told him to forget it, to cut his losses, which had been considerable to date. Yet the amulet remained, always in the back of his mind.

If he didn't find it, own it, he would have failed. Failure
was simply unacceptable. Even in a hobby. He could justify the time and the money. He had more than enough of both. And he hadn't forgotten that James Lassiter had laughed at him, had tried to outwit him on a deal.

If Angelique's Curse haunted him, there was a reason for it. It belonged to him.

He glanced up. His divers waited. The crew looked on in silence, ready to obey any order. Such things, VanDyke thought with contentment, money could buy.

“Continue the excavation.” He rose, brushed fussily at the knees of his sharply creased slacks. “I want armed guards, five on deck, five at the wreck. Deal discreetly, but firmly, with any interference.” Satisfied, he flicked a glance out to sea. “Don't harm the girl should she return. She interests me. Piper.” With a crook of his finger, he gestured to his marine archeologist.

VanDyke moved briskly through the forward doors and into his office, with Piper on his heels like a loyal hound.

Like the rest of the yacht, VanDyke's floating office was stylish and efficient. The walls were paneled in glossy rosewood, the floor gleamed with its polish of hot wax. The desk, securely anchored, was a nineteenth-century antique that had once graced the home of a British lord.

Rather than typical seafaring decor, he preferred the feel of a manor house, complete with a Gainsborough and heavy brocade drapes. Due to the tropical weather, the small marble fireplace housed a thriving bromeliad rather than crackling logs. The chairs were buttery leather in tones of burgundy and hunter green. Antiques and priceless artifacts were displayed with taste that just edged toward opulence.

With a practical nod to the twentieth century, the office was fully outfitted with the finest electronic equipment.

Never one to shrug away work, VanDyke had crowded his desk with charts and logs and copies of the documents and manifests that guided him on his search for treasure. Hobby or business, knowledge was control.

VanDyke sat behind his desk, waited a few beats. Piper wouldn't sit until he was told. That small and vital twist
of power pleased. Prepared to be benign, VanDyke gestured to a chair.

“You've finished transferring the notebooks I gave you onto disk?”

“Yes, sir.” Piper's thick-lensed glasses magnified the doglike devotion in his brown eyes. He had a brilliant mind that VanDyke respected. And an addiction to cocaine and gambling VanDyke detested and used.

“You found no mention of the amulet?”

“No, sir.” Piper folded his always-nervous hands, pulled them apart. “Whoever was in charge of the cataloguing did a first-class job, though. Everything, down to the last iron spike, is listed, dated. The photographs are excellent, and the notes and sketches detailing the work are clear and concise.”

They hadn't found the amulet, he mused. He had known it, of course, in his heart, in his gut. But he preferred tangible details.

“That's something. Keep whatever might be of use and destroy the rest.” Considering, VanDyke tugged at his earlobe. “I'll want a full accounting of today's haul by ten tomorrow morning. I realize that will keep you busy most of the night.” He unlocked a drawer, took out a small vial of white powder. Necessity overcame disgust as he saw the desperate gratitude on Piper's face. “Use this sensibly, Piper, and privately.”

“Yes, Mr. VanDyke.” The vial disappeared into Piper's baggy pocket. “You'll have everything by morning.”

“I know I can count on you, Piper. That's all for now.”

Alone, VanDyke leaned back. His eyes scanned the papers on his desk as he sighed. It was possible that the Lassiters had simply lucked onto a virgin wreck, and it had nothing to do with the amulet. Years of indulging in his hobby, and the search, had given him a true appreciation for luck.

If that was the case, he would simply take what they'd found and add to his own fortune.

But if the amulet was on the
Santa Marguerite,
it would soon be his. He would excavate every inch of her and the surrounding sea until he was sure.

James had found something, he mused, tapping his steepled fingers to his lips. Something he had refused to share. And oh, how that grated still. After all this time, the search around Australia and New Zealand had gone cold. There was a piece of documentation missing. VanDyke was sure of it.

James had known something, but had he had the time or the inclination to share that something with his fool of a brother, or the son he left behind?

Perhaps not. Perhaps he had died clutching the secret to himself. He detested not being sure, detested knowing he might have miscalculated. The fury of that, the slim chance that he had mistaken his man had VanDyke balling his pampered hands into fists.

His eyes darkened with temper, his handsome mouth thinned and trembled while he fought back the tantrum as a man might fight a wild beast snapping at his throat. He recognized the signs—the thundering heartbeat, the pounding of blood in his head, behind his eyes, the roaring in his ears.

The violent moods were coming on him more often, as they had when he'd been a boy and had been denied some wish.

But that had been before he'd learned to use his strength of will, before he'd groomed his power to manipulate and win. The vicious, furious waves of black rage rolled over him, taunted him to drum his heels, to scream, to break something. Anything. Oh, how he despised being thwarted, how he loathed losing the upper hand.

Still, he would not give in to weak and useless emotions, he ordered himself. He would, under all circumstances, stay in control, stay cool and clearheaded. Losing the grip on emotions made a man vulnerable, caused him to make foolish mistakes. It was vital to remember it.

And to remember how his mother had lost that battle, and had lived her last years drooling on her silk blouses in a locked room.

His body shivered once with the final effort to battle back rage. He took a long, steadying breath, straightened his tie, massaged his tensed hands.

It was possible, he thought with utter calm now, that he had been a bit impatient with James Lassiter. It wasn't a mistake he would make with the others. Years of search had only strengthened him, added wisdom and knowledge. Made him more aware of the value of the prize, the power of its possession.

It waited for him just as he waited for it, he reminded himself, and saw that his hands were again perfectly steady. Neither he nor Angelique's Curse would tolerate any interlopers. But, interlopers could be used before they were discarded.

Time would tell, VanDyke thought and closed his eyes. There was no sea, no ocean, no pond where the Lassiters could sail without him being aware.