The Reef (23 page)

By Christ, he'd please himself. That's what he thought, even as he suffered. She was everything he'd remembered and sought to forget. Everything and more. Even as they sank beneath the surface, kicked back into air wrapped in each other, he knew it wasn't the sea that would drown him. But his desperate, endless need for her.

The taste of her, the smell and the feel. The sound of her breath catching on confused pleasure. The memories of the past and the reality of now tangled until he could almost forget there had been time between.

She hadn't known she could still feel like this. So hungry and out of control. She didn't want to think, not when her body was so intensely alive and every nerve in it on shivering edge.

It was just physical. She could cling to that as well as him. A man's hard, demanding mouth, that wet, slippery
flesh, a tough, ready body molded to hers. No, she didn't want to think. But she had to.

“No.”

She managed one breathless syllable before his mouth came back and sent her mind reeling again. She felt her will slipping and struggled against both him and herself.

“I said no.”

“I heard you.” A dozen separate wars waged inside him. He wanted her, and knew by the way her mouth had fit on his that he could have her. He needed her, and read the mirror of that in her dazed eyes. If want and need had been all, the war would have been over quickly.

But he loved her. And that left him a victim bleeding on his own battlefield.

“I didn't do that alone, Tate. But you can pretend I did if it makes you feel better.”

“I don't have to pretend anything. Let go of me.”

He already had. And that helped curve his lips into something close to a smile. “You're holding me, sweetheart.” He brought his hands out of the water, palms facing her.

On an oath, she released the grip her arms had somehow taken around him. “I know the cliché, Lassiter, but this time history isn't going to repeat itself. We work together, we dive together. That's all we do together.”

“It's your choice, Red. It always was.”

“Then there shouldn't be a problem.”

“No problem.” He struck out in a lazy backstroke. “Unless you're worried you won't be able to resist me.”

“I can manage,” she called after him.

He'd have been pleased to see the line was between her brows again. Muttering to herself, Tate went under to cool her head, then swam in the opposite direction.

 

“You're not going down again until you pass the written test.” Matthew shoved papers under LaRue's nose. “That's the way it is.”

“I'm not a schoolboy.”

“You're a trainee. I'm your instructor, and you're going to take the written test. Pass it, you dive. Fail it, you're
grounded. The first part's equipment identification.” Matthew leaned forward. “You remember what a regulator is, don't you, LaRue?”

“It gives the air from the tank to the diver.” LaRue pushed the papers aside. “So?”

Matthew pushed them back. “And consists of?”

“Consists of, consists of.” Scowling, LaRue snatched his tobacco pouch. “The, ah, mouthpiece, the hose, the what is it, stages?”

“What's a stage?”

“This is pressure-reducing unit. Why do you worry me with this?”

“You don't dive until you know the equipment inside-out, until I'm sure you understand the physics and physiology.” He offered LaRue a sharpened pencil. “Take all the time you need, but remember, you don't dive until you're done. Buck, give me a hand on deck.”

“Sure, be right there.”

LaRue glanced over his test sheets, glanced at Matthew's retreating back. “What is Boyle's Law?” he whispered to Buck.

“When the pressure—”

“No cheating,” Matthew called back. “Jesus, Buck.”

“Sorry, LaRue, you're on your own.” Shamefaced, Buck followed Matthew out on deck. “I was just giving him a little hint.”

“Who's going to give him a little hint if he forgets the basics when he's forty feet under?”

“You're right—but he's doing good, isn't he? You said he had a knack for diving.”

“He's a fucking fish down there,” Matthew said with a grin. “But he's not skipping the details.”

He was already wearing his wet suit and now zipped it. He gave his tanks and gauges a last check, then let Buck help him strap them on.

“We're just going down for a little recognizance,” Matthew commented as he adjusted his weight belt.

“Yeah.”

Buck knew they were over the site of the
Marguerite.
Both he and Matthew avoided discussing the wreck, or
what had happened. Buck avoided Matthew's eyes as his nephew sat to put on his flippers.

“Tate wants some pictures,” Matthew said, for lack of anything better. Everyone knew they wanted a firsthand look at what VanDyke had left behind.

“Sure. She was always big on getting pictures. Kid grew up nice, didn't she?”

“Nice enough. Don't give LaRue any more hints.”

“Not even if he begs.” Buck's smile faded when Matthew slipped on his mask. Panic reared up and grabbed him by the throat. “Matthew . . .”

Matthew paused, one hand on his mask as he prepared to roll into the water. “What?” He saw the anxiety, struggled to overlook it.

“Nothing.” Buck wiped a hand over his mouth, swallowed hard while nightmare visions of sharks and blood swam in his head. “Good diving.”

With a brief nod, Matthew slipped into the water. He ignored the impulse to dive deep, lose himself in the silence and solitude. He crossed the distance to the
New Adventure
in an easy crawl, gave up a hailing shout.

“Ready to roll up there?”

“Just about.” Ray, full-suited, came to the rail with a grin. “Tate's checking her camera.” He lifted a hand in a wave to Buck. “How's he doing?”

“He'll be all right,” Matthew said. The last thing he wanted to do was dwell on his uncle's fears. Now that they were here, he was impatient to begin. “Let's go, Red!” he shouted. “The morning's wasting.”

“I'm coming.”

He caught a glimpse of her before she sat to pull on her flippers. Moments later, he watched her graceful entry. With a quick pike dive, Matthew was following her down even as Ray dropped into the water.

The three of them descended, nearly side by side.

Matthew hadn't expected the memories to swarm up at him like the bright, quick fish. Everything about that summer came back, unbidden and unwelcomed. He remembered the way she had looked when he'd first seen her.
The wary suspicious eyes, the quick flares of anger, resentment.

Oh, and he remembered his instant attraction, one he'd smothered, or tried to. The sense of competition when they'd teamed as diving partners, an edge that had never really dulled even after they'd melded into a unit.

There was the thrill he'd experienced when they'd found the wreck. Those times with her that had opened both his heart and his hopes as nothing and no one ever had before. Or had again. All the sensations of falling in love, of working together, of discovery and promise spun through him as they neared the shadow of the wreck.

As did the jarring aches of horror and loss.

VanDyke had left little but the shredded shell of the galleon. Matthew knew at one glance it would be a foolish waste of time to bring down the airlift and dig. Nothing of any value would have been left behind. The wreck itself had been destroyed, ripped apart in search of that last doubloon.

It surprised him to feel sorrow for that. With careful excavation, the
Marguerite
might have been saved. Instead she was in pieces, left for the worms.

When he glanced at Tate, Matthew could see clearly that whatever vague regret he felt for the ship was nothing to what she was experiencing.

It shattered her. Tate stared at the scattered planks, not bothering to attempt to block the wave of grief. She let it wash over her until she felt it deep inside.

He'd killed her, she thought. VanDyke hadn't been content with his rape, but had destroyed the
Marguerite.
No one would see what she had been, what she had meant. Because of one man's greed.

She might have wept if tears hadn't been so late and so useless. Instead, she shook off the comforting hand Matthew put on her shoulder, and lifted her camera. If nothing else, she'd record the devastation.

Catching Matthew's eye, Ray shook his head, gestured so that they swam a short distance away.

There was still beauty surrounding her. The coral, the fish, the waving plants. But it didn't touch her now as she
recorded the scene that had once been the stage for such great joy.

It was fitting, she supposed, that it had been ruined, destroyed, neglected. Just like the love she'd once offered Matthew.

So, she thought, that summer was finally and completely over. It was past time to bury it, and start new.

When they surfaced, the first thing she saw was Buck's pale, anxious face leaning over the rail.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine,” she assured him. Because it was closer, she pulled herself aboard the
Mermaid.
She stopped, turned and waved to her mother, who was recording the event on video aboard the
New Adventure.
“Pretty much what we expected,” she told Buck after she had dropped her weight belt.

“Bastard tore her apart, didn't he?”

“Yes.” She glanced over as Matthew climbed on deck.

“Ray wants to head south right away.” He pulled off his mask, ran a hand through his hair. “You might as well stay put,” he told Tate before she could rise. “It won't take long. Buck?”

With a nod, Buck headed up to the bridge to take the wheel.

“Best plan is to do some swim-overs.” After tugging down the zipper of his wet suit, Matthew sat beside her. “We could get lucky.”

“Are you feeling lucky, Lassiter?”

“No.” He closed his eyes as the engine purred. “She meant something to me, too.”

“Fame and fortune?”

The words cut, but not as keenly as the edge of her voice. His gaze, hot and hurt, swept up to hers before he stood and strode toward the companionway.

“Matthew.” Shame had her springing up after him. “I'm sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No.” Before he could take the stairs, she grabbed his arm. “I am sorry. That was hard on all of us—going
down, seeing what was left. Remembering. Taking it out on you is easy, but it doesn't help.”

In impotent fury, Matthew's hands whitened on the rail. “Maybe I could have stopped him. Buck thought so.”

“Buck wasn't there.” She kept her hand firm on his arm until he turned to face her again. Odd, she thought, she hadn't realized he would blame himself. Or that he had room in the cold heart she'd assigned to him for guilt. “There was nothing any of us could have done. Looking back doesn't help either, and certainly doesn't change anything.”

“The
Marguerite
's not all we're talking about, is it?”

She was tempted to back off, to shrug his words away. But evasions were foolish, and she hoped she was no longer a fool. “No, it's not.”

“I wasn't what you wanted me to be, and I hurt you. I can't change that either.”

“I was young. Infatuations pass.” Somehow her hand had found its way to his, and linked. Realizing it, she flexed her fingers free and stepped back. “I understood something when I was down there, looking at what was left. There is nothing left, Matthew. The ship, that summer, that girl. All that's gone. We have to start with what's now.”

“Clean slate.”

“I don't know if we can go that far. Let's just say we've turned a page.”

“Okay.” He offered a hand. When she took it, he brought hers unexpectedly to his lips. “I'm going to work on you, Red,” he murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“You said we've got a new page. I figure I've got some say in what gets written on it. So I'm going to work on you. Last time around, you threw yourself at me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Sure you did. But I can see I've got my work cut out for me this time. That's okay.” He skimmed his thumb over her knuckles before she jerked her hand free. “In fact, I think I'm going to enjoy it.”

“I don't know why I waste my time trying to mend fences with you. You're as arrogant as you ever were.”

“Just the way you like me, sweetheart.”

She caught the lightning flash of his grin before she whirled away. Try as she might, she couldn't quite suppress the answering upward tug of her lips.

It was hell knowing he was right. That was exactly the way she liked him.

S
WIM
-
OVERS TURNED UP
nothing impressive. Tate spent most of the afternoon closeted with her father and his research while Matthew took LaRue, fresh from passing his written certification, on a practice dive.

She had already organized the heaps of notes, the snippets from the National Archives, wreck charts, the material Ray had culled from the
Archivo General de Indias
in Seville.

She'd separated his maps, charts, storm records, manifests, diaries. Now she concentrated on his calculations.

Already she'd figured and refigured a dozen times. If their information was correct, they were certainly in the right area. The problem was, of course, that even with a location, finding a wreck was like separating that one special grain of sand from a fat fistful.

The sea was so huge, so vast, and even with the leaps in technology, a man's abilities were limited. It was highly possible to be within twenty feet of a wreck, and miss it entirely.

They had been almost foolishly lucky with the
Marguerite.
Tate didn't want to calculate the odds of lightning striking twice, not with the hope and excitement she could see whenever she looked into her father's eyes.

They needed the
Isabella,
she thought. All of them did, for all manner of differing reasons.

She knew the magnetometer aboard the
Mermaid
was in use. It was a fine and efficient way of locating a wreck. So far the sensor being towed behind the
Mermaid
had picked up no readings of iron such as would be found in cannon, riggings, anchor.

They had depth finders on both bridges so that any telltale change in water depth caused by a wreck would be distinguished. They had set out buoys to mark the search pattern.

If she was down there, Tate thought, they would find her.

She stayed in the deckhouse after her father had gone out to starboard.

“You're not going to put roses in your cheeks in here, Red.”

She looked up, surprised when Matthew held out a glass of her mother's lemonade. “You're back. How did LaRue check out?”

“He's a good diving partner. How many times are you going to go over all this?”

She tidied papers. “Until I'm finished.”

“How about taking a break?” Reaching out, he toyed with the sleeve of her T-shirt. He'd been working on this approach all day, and still wasn't sure he had it right. “Why don't we take a run into Nevis, have dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“That's right. You.” He tugged the sleeve. “And me.”

“I don't think so.”

“I thought we'd turned the page.”

“That doesn't—”

“And I'm not keen on the big pinochle game that's being planned for tonight. As I remember, you weren't big on cards either. The resort has a reggae band out on the terrace. Some dinner, a little music. There won't be time for much of that once we find the
Isabella.
”

“It's been a long day.”

“You're going to make me think you're afraid to spend a couple of hours with me.” His eyes flashed on hers,
blue as the sea and just as arrogant. “Of course, if you're afraid you'll throw yourself at me again.”

“That's pathetic.”

“Well, then.” Satisfied he nailed the approach after all, he headed back for the companionway. “Wear your hair down, Red. I like it.”

 

She wore it up. Not to spite him, she assured herself. But because she wanted to. She'd changed into a sundress the color of crushed blueberries borrowed from her mother's closet, at Marla's insistence. The full skirt made it easy to climb in and out of the tender.

Once she was settled in and the little tender was speeding toward the island, she admitted that she looked forward to an elegant restaurant meal, with a little music tossed in.

The air was balmy, the sun still bright as it traveled west. Behind the protection of her shaded glasses, she studied Matthew. His hair was whipping around his face. On the tiller, his hand was broad and competent. If there had been no history between them, she would have been pleased to have such an attractive companion for an evening's relaxation.

But there was history. Rather than diluting the pleasure, it added an edge to it. Competition again, she supposed. If he thought she would fall for that rough-and-ready charm a second time, she was only too happy to prove him wrong.

“The weather's supposed to hold all week,” she said conversationally.

“I know. You still don't wear lipstick.” When she instinctively flicked her tongue over her lips, he dealt with the resulting hitch in his pulse. “It's a pity most women don't realize how tempting a naked mouth is. Especially when it pouts.”

Deliberately, she relaxed her mouth again. “I'll enjoy knowing it's driving you crazy for the next couple of hours.”

She turned her attention to Nevis. The mountain's cone was swirled in clouds, a striking and dramatic contrast to the brilliant blue of the sky. Far below, the shore spread white against a calm sea. The sand was dotted with people,
pretty umbrellas and lounging chairs. A novice sailboarder struggled fruitlessly to stay upright. As she watched him fall into the water again, Tate laughed.

“Too bad.” She cocked a brow at Matthew. “Have you ever tried that?”

“Nope.”

“I have. It's a hell of a lot of work, frustrating when you think you've got it then lose your balance and capsize. But if you catch the breeze and go, it's wonderful.”

“Better than diving?”

“No.” She continued to smile, watching the young man struggle onto his board again. “Nothing's better than diving.”

“Things have changed around here.”

“Hmmm.” She waited as he maneuvered to the pier, tossed a line to a member of the resort's staff. “I didn't even know they were planning to build when we were here last.” She took Matthew's offered hand and climbed to the dock. “Now it looks as though it almost grew here.”

“Nevis isn't quite the secret it used to be.” He kept a hand on her arm as they walked down the pier to the beach.

Stone walkways offered a route through lush gardens and sloping green lawns where pretty two-story cabanas sat. They passed the poolside restaurant, moving toward the marble stairs that led to the main building.

Tate glanced over her shoulder. “We're not eating out here?”

“We can do a little better than light fare by the pool. The restaurant inside has terrace dining.” He led Tate inside toward the reservation pedestal, where a woman in the bright-patterned shirt of the staff beamed at him. “Lassiter.”

“Yes, sir. You requested the terrace.”

“That's right. I called ahead,” he told Tate when she frowned at him. Her frown only deepened when he held out her chair. If memory served, his manners had smoothed out considerably. “Can you handle
champagne?” he murmured, leaning down so that his breath tickled her ear.

“Of course, but—”

He was ordering a bottle even as he took the seat across from her. “Nice view.”

“Yes.” She took her gaze from his face and looked out over the gardens to the sea.

“Tell me about the last eight years, Tate.”

“Why?”

“I want to know.” Needed to know. “Let's say it'll fill in some of the blanks.”

“I studied a lot,” she began. “More than I bargained for. I guess I had the idea that I knew so much going in. But I knew so little really. The first couple of months I . . .” Was lost, unhappy, missing you so terribly. “I needed to adjust,” she said carefully.

“But you caught on pretty quick.”

“I suppose.” Relax, she ordered herself and made herself turn back and smile at him. “I liked the routine, the structure. And I really wanted to learn.”

She looked over as the waitress brought the champagne to the table to show off its label.

“Let her taste it,” Matthew ordered.

Obliging, the waitress uncorked the bottle and poured a swallow into Tate's flute. “It's lovely,” Tate murmured, much too aware that Matthew's eyes never left her face.

When their glasses were filled, she started to drink again, but he laid a finger on her wrist. Gently, he tapped the glasses together. “To the next page,” he said and smiled.

“All right.” She was a grown woman, Tate reminded herself. Experienced now. She had all the defenses necessary to resist a man. Even one like Matthew.

“So you learned,” Matthew prompted.

“Yes. And whenever I had an opportunity to use what I'd learned on an expedition, I took it.”

“And the
Isabella,
isn't she an opportunity?”

“That remains to be seen.” She opened her menu, skimmed it, looked up at him with wide eyes. “Matthew.”

“I managed to hold on to a few bucks over the years,”
he assured her. “Besides, you've always been my lucky charm.” He picked up her hand. “This time, Red, we go home rich.”

“So, that's still the bottom line? All right.” She shrugged. “It's your party, Lassiter. If you want to live for today, we'll do it.”

While they ate, and the wine fizzed in their glasses, the sun lowered. It sank red into the sea, giving the air that brief and painfully lovely twilight of the tropics. On cue, the music from the patio beyond began.

“You haven't told me about your eight years, Matthew.”

“Nothing very interesting.”

“You built the
Mermaid.
That's interesting.”

“She's a beauty.” He looked out to the sea where, beyond his sight, she rocked. “Just like I imagined her.”

“Whatever happens here, you'd have a career in boat design and building.”

“I'm never working to make ends meet again,” he said quietly. “Never doing what needs to be done and forgetting what I want.”

It struck her, that fierceness in his eyes, so that she reached out to touch his hand. “Is that what you did?”

Surprised, he looked back. With a careless shrug, he linked his fingers with hers. “It's not what I'm doing. That's what counts. You know something, Red?”

“What?”

“You're beautiful. No.” He smiled slowly when she tried to slip her hand free. “I've got you now. For now,” he corrected. “Get used to it.”

“The fact that I chose you over pinochle has obviously gone to your head.”

“Then there's that voice,” he murmured, delighted by the way confusion flickered with the candlelight in her eyes. “Soft, slow, smooth. Like honey spiked with just the right amount of good bourbon. A man could get drunk just listening to you.”

“I think you got a head start with the champagne. I'll pilot us back.”

“Fine. But we'll have at least one dance.” He signaled for the bill.

A dance wouldn't hurt, Tate decided. If anything, she could use the close contact to convince him that she wasn't about to be seduced into the brief affair he was obviously after.

She could enjoy him without losing herself or her heart this time around. And if he suffered a little, she wasn't above enjoying that as well.

To show how little it mattered, she let her hand stay in his as they left the screened terrace for the open patio below.

The music was slow, sexy, with the vocalist adding a teasing interpretation to the words. A couple sat huddled together at a table in the shadows, but there were no other dancers when Matthew took her into his arms.

He took her close, so their bodies molded, so that her cheek had little choice but to rest on his. Without thinking, she closed her eyes.

She should have known that he would be smooth, that he would be clever. But she hadn't expected that her steps would match his so perfectly.

“I didn't know you could dance.”

He skimmed a hand up her back to where material gave way to flesh, flesh that shivered at the touch. “There's a lot we didn't know about each other. But I know the way you smelled.” He nuzzled just under her ear. “That hasn't changed.”

“I've changed,” she said, struggling not to react as fire licked along her vulnerable flesh.

“You still feel the same.” He reached up to pull pins out of her hair.

“Stop that.”

“I liked it short.” His voice was as quiet as the breeze, just as seductive. “But this is better.” Softly, his mouth skimmed over her temple. “Some changes are.”

She was trembling, those quick, involuntary shivers he remembered so well.

“We're different people now,” she murmured. She wanted it to be true, needed it to be. And yet, if it was,
how could it be so easy to move into his arms as if not a moment had passed since the last time?

“Lots of other things are just the way they were. Like the way you fit against me.”

She jerked her head back, then shuddered when his lips brushed over hers.

“You still taste the same.”

“I'm not the same. Nothing's the same.” She broke away and darted down the steps toward the beach.

She couldn't seem to draw in enough air. The balmy night had suddenly turned traitor, making her skin shiver. It was anger—she wanted to believe it was anger that made her stomach clench and her eyes tear. But she knew it was need, and could only hate him for rekindling a long-dead spark.

When he caught her, she was sure she would round on him, clawing and spitting. Somehow her arms were around him, her mouth seeking his.

“I hate you for this. God, I hate you for this.”

“I don't give a damn.” He dragged her head back to plunder. It was all there, that energy, that verve, that passion. He had a wild, desperate thought to drag her off into the bushes, to plunge himself into the heat that vibrated from her.

“I know you don't.” And it was that which still hurt, a scar that throbbed under a fresh wound. “But I do.”