The Reef (26 page)

Matthew jerked a thumb toward the surface, but she shook her head, pointed toward the airlift. With a nod, he shouldered it again while she scooped handfuls of coins from the sand to the bucket.

She had filled two to overflowing, and was happily exhausted when she spotted the pouch. It had been velvet and was tattered and worn. Even as her fingers touched it, the corners crumbled in her hand. Through the thready hole, stars fell.

Her breath literally stopped. With a trembling hand, she reached down and lifted the rope. Diamonds and sapphires exploded through the murk. It was three tiers, ridiculously heavy and ornate. The gems had held their fire through the centuries and flashed now before her dazzled eyes.

Stunned, she held it out to Matthew.

For one numbing moment, he thought they'd found it.
He would have sworn he saw the amulet dripping from her hands, felt the power humming from the bloody stone. But when he touched it himself, it changed. Priceless, sumptuous, it was. But it held no magic. In a careless gesture, he tossed it over her head so that gems sparkled against her snug, dark suit.

This time when he signaled to surface, she nodded. She gave a tug on the ropes. Together they followed the buckets.

“We found the mother lode.” Exhaustion forgotten, Tate reached out for him as they broke the surface.

“I don't think there's any doubt of that.”

“Matthew.” Reverently, she slipped her fingers under the necklace. “It's real.”

“Looks good on you.” He closed a hand over hers. “You still bring me luck, Tate.”

“Holy God Almighty!” came the shout from the
Mermaid.
“We got gold here, Ray,” Buck yelled. “We got ourselves buckets of gold.”

Tate grinned and squeezed Matthew's hand. “Let's go let them pat us on the back.”

“Good idea. I was thinking”—he kicked lazily toward the
Mermaid
—“if I were to swim over, say about midnight, go up to the bridge. There's a lock on that door.”

She reached for the ladder ahead of him. “Now, that's a good idea.”

 

Within two days, they had hauled up over a million dollars in gold. There were jewels that Tate was struggling to appraise and catalogue. The more stunning their success, the more precautions they took.

They moored the boats more than a hundred feet from the site, and Buck made a show of fishing off the bow at least twice a day when the tour boats passed within hailing distance. Tate took countless rolls of film and stored them. She sketched, and filed the drawings away.

She knew her dream of a museum was almost within her grasp. There would be articles to be written, papers to be published, interviews. She and her father debated plans and ideas. To Matthew, she said nothing of her hopes. His
dreams, she knew, were different from hers. They worked together, hunted together. In the quiet of midnight, they made restless love on a padded blanket.

And if he sometimes seemed moody, if she would catch him studying her with unreadable eyes, she told herself they'd reached their compromise.

The expedition, and the quiet flow of spring into summer, couldn't have been more perfect.

 

LaRue strolled, whistling, out of the deckhouse. He paused a moment, watching Buck and Marla hammer conglomerate. He admired the very attractive Mrs. Beaumont. Not only for her looks and slim, lovely body, but for her seamless class. The women who had flowed in and out of LaRue's life had been interesting, intriguing, but very rarely had they been classy.

Even sweaty and grimy-handed, the pedigreed Southern belle shone through.

It was a pity the woman was married, he thought. One of the few rules LaRue never broke was to seduce a married woman.

“I must take the tender,” he announced. “We need supplies.”

“Oh.” Marla sat back on her heels, brushed beads of perspiration from her brow. “Are you going to Saint Kitts, LaRue? I was hoping to run in myself. I could really use some fresh eggs and fruit.”

“I would be happy to pick up whatever you would like.”

“Actually . . .” She offered him her most charming smile. “I'd love to go ashore for a little while. If you wouldn't mind the company.”

His smile flashed as he quickly adjusted his plans. “
Ma chère
Marla, it would be my greatest pleasure.”

“Could you wait just a few minutes while I clean up?”

“My time is your time.”

All chivalry, he assisted her into the tender, watched her efficiently zip across the distance to the
New Adventure.
Nothing, he knew, would induce the lovely Mrs. Beaumont to swim even a few feet.

“You're wasting your charm on her, Frenchie,” Buck grumbled and whacked his hammer.

“But,
mon ami,
I have so much to spare.” Amused, LaRue glanced back. “And what would you like me to bring you back from the island?”

A bottle of Black Jack, Buck thought, nearly tasting that first shock of whiskey in his throat. “I don't need nothing.”

“As you wish.” He patted his pocket where his tobacco was stashed, then wandered back to the rail. “Ah, here comes my lovely shopping companion.
A bientôt.
”

Gallantly, LaRue took the tiller, executed a sweeping turn so that Marla could wave to Ray before they cruised toward St. Kitts.

“I really appreciate this, LaRue. Ray's so wrapped up with his charts and inventory I didn't have the heart to ask him to run me in.” Delighted with the prospect of poking through markets, she lifted her face to the wind. “And everyone's so busy.”

“You work very hard yourself, Marla.”

“It hardly seems like work. Now, the diving.” She rolled her eyes. “That's work. You enjoy it, though.”

“Matthew is an excellent teacher. After so many years on the water, it's become a pleasure for me to explore beneath. Ray is the best of diving partners.”

“He's always loved it. Now and again, he still tries to convince me to try it. I actually tried snorkeling once. The reefs off Cozumel were very exciting, but I forgot myself and paddled out a bit. Before I knew it, I was looking down at open water. It's the oddest sensation.” She shuddered. “A kind of vertigo.” Amused at herself, she patted the life jacket she'd strapped on. “I'll stick with boats.”

“It's a shame you can't see for yourself the
Isabella.
”

“With all the sketches Tate's done, I feel as though I have. What will you do with your share, LaRue? Will you go back to Canada?”

“Spare me. Such cold.” He studied the shoreline in the distance. White sand, swaying palms. “Me, I prefer a warmer clime. Perhaps I will build a home here, and look
down on the water. Or sail the world.” He grinned at her. “But whatever, I will enjoy being a rich man.”

It was, after all, a fine ambition.

Once he'd docked the boat, he escorted Marla into town, charmingly insisted on paying for their cab. Enjoying himself, he strolled through fruit and vegetable stands with her.

“Would you mind terribly if I took a turn through a couple shops, LaRue? I'm ashamed to admit such a female failing, but I'm feeling deprived. I'd just love to look at some trinkets. And I do need to buy some more tapes for my camcorder.”

“Then you must. I would like nothing more than to go with you, but I have an errand or two to take care of myself. Is it convenient to meet you here, in, oh, forty minutes?”

“That would be perfect.”

“Until then.” He took her hand, kissed it charmingly, then ambled off.

As soon as he was out of sight, he slipped into the lobby of a small hotel. He needed the privacy of a phone booth, and settled inside. The number he needed was inside his head. Such things were dangerous to write down for other eyes to see.

He waited patiently, humming to himself as the operator connected the call. Collect, of course. He sneered as the pompous voice announced, “VanDyke residence.”

“I have a collect call for Silas VanDyke from a Mr. LaRue. Will you accept the charges?”

“One moment, please.”

“One moment, please,” the operator repeated in her lovely island voice for LaRue's benefit.

“I have nothing but time, mademoiselle.” To pass it, he rolled a cigarette.

“This is VanDyke, I'll accept the charges.”

“Thank you. Go ahead, Mr. LaRue.”

“
Bonjour,
Mr. VanDyke, you are, I hope, well?”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The lobby of a little hotel on Saint Kitts. The weather is quite wonderful.”

“The rest of them?”

“The lovely Mrs. Beaumont is souvenir shopping. The others are at sea.”

“What are they looking for? The
Marguerite
is played out. I saw to it personally.”

“So she is. You left little even for the worms. Tate was very upset.”

“Was she?” A trace of malevolent pleasure crept into his voice. “She should have stayed where I put her. But that's another problem to be dealt with. I want a full report, LaRue. I'm paying you very well to keep tabs on the Lassiters.”

“And I'm delighted to do so. You may be interested to know that Buck has gone on the wagon. He suffers, but he's yet to reach for a bottle.”

“He will.”

“Perhaps.” LaRue blew out smoke, watched it curl toward the top of the booth. “He doesn't dive. When others do, he bites his nails and sweats. You might be interested that Matthew and Tate are lovers. They rendezvous nightly.”

“I'm disappointed in her taste.” The lovely, cultured voice tightened. “Gossip is entertaining, LaRue, but I don't like to pay for it. How long do they intend to stay with the
Marguerite
?”

“We left the
Marguerite
weeks ago.”

The pause was brief. “Weeks ago, and you didn't bother to inform me?”

“I have, as I always have, relied on my own instincts. I enjoy dramatic timing,
mon ami.
Now it seems more appropriate to tell you we have found the wreck of the
Isabella.
And, she is rich.” He drew in more fragrant smoke, blew it out. “My diving companion, Ray Beaumont, believes quite strongly that she holds something most precious.”

“Which is?”

“Angelique's Curse.” LaRue smiled to himself. “I think it would be wise for you to wire a bonus of one hundred thousand American dollars into my Swiss
account. I will check in twenty minutes to see that the transaction has taken place.”

“A hundred thousand dollars, for a fantasy.” But there was a breathlessness in the words that came clearly over the wire.

“When I'm assured the money is in place, I will use the fax from this charming little hotel and send you copies of the documentation Ray has worked so hard and long to gather. I believe you will find it well worth the price. I will contact you again, soon, with our progress.
A bientôt.
”

Very pleased with himself, he hung up before VanDyke could finish the next sentence.

The money would come, LaRue thought. VanDyke was too much the businessman to ignore the investment.

LaRue rubbed his hands together and exited the booth, hoping the hotel ran a little coffee shop where he could pass a quiet twenty minutes.

It was so amusing, he decided, to stir the pot, and watch just how it simmered.

S
HE WAS LATE
. Matthew paced the bridge, telling himself it was ridiculous to feel disappointed that she hadn't been waiting for him. He'd seen the light in the deckhouse when he'd started his swim over. Obviously, she was involved in something. Eventually, her concentration would break, she'd glance at the clock and realize it was after midnight.

Eventually.

He moved quietly to the pilot window again to stare out at the sea and stars.

Like any sailor, he could map the world with those stars. With them, he could find his way to any point of land or body of water. But he had no map, no guide to show him the route to what he coveted most. On that journey, he was blind and without direction.

All of his life it had been helplessness that had shamed him more than any emotion, any failing. He had been helpless to prevent his mother's desertion, his father's murder, Buck's mutilation. And he was helpless now to defend himself against his own heart, and the woman who didn't want it.

He wished he could blame this restlessness that chewed at him on something as simple as sex. But that basic thirst had been slaked. He still wanted her, he couldn't look at
her and not want her. Yet it went so far beyond the physical.

He supposed it had always been beyond the physical.

How could he explain that he was a different man with her? Could be a different man if she felt even a shadow for him of what he felt for her. Living without her was possible. He'd done it before and knew he would do it again. But he would never be what he wanted to be, or have what he wanted to have, unless she was part of it.

There was nothing he could do but take what she gave him, and let her go when the time came.

He knew what it was like to exist for the moment. Most of his life had been like that. It was demeaning to realize that one woman could make him yearn for a future, for boundaries and responsibilities.

A woman, he knew, who didn't believe him capable of accepting any responsibility.

There was no way to prove her wrong. They both understood that if he found what he was looking for, he would take it. And he would use it. Once he possessed Angelique's Curse, he would lose Tate. There was no way he could hold both of them, and no way he could live with himself if he ignored his debt to his father.

Now, alone, watching the stars mirror themselves on the water, he could hope that the necklace and all it stood for remained buried under the greedy sea.

“I'm sorry.” She came in quickly, her hair flying as she turned to close and lock the door. “I was sketching the ivory fan and lost track. It's fantastic to realize something so delicate could survive untouched and perfect for all these years.”

She stopped. He was staring at her in the way he sometimes did that made her feel awkward and terrifyingly transparent. What was in his mind? she wondered. How did he hide those emotions that drove him? It was like looking at a volcano and knowing that far beneath the surface, lava was boiling.

“Are you angry? It's only quarter past.”

“No, I'm not angry.” Those eyes, with all the secrets
glinting, held hers relentlessly. “Do you want some wine?”

“You brought wine?” Suddenly nervous, she shook back her hair. “That's nice.”

“I filched it from LaRue. He picked up some fancy French kind when he went ashore with Marla the other day. It's already opened.” Matthew picked up the bottle and poured two glasses.

“Thanks.” She took the glass and wondered what to do next. Normally, they simply dived to the floor and tore off their clothes, as greedy as children unwrapping gifts. “There's a storm brewing west of here. It could be trouble.”

“It's still early for hurricanes. Buck's keeping his eye on it, though. Tell me about the fan LaRue brought up this afternoon.”

“It's probably worth two or three thousand. More to a serious collector.”

He reached out to touch her hair. “Tate, tell me about the fan.”

“Oh. Well.” Off balance, she wandered to the port window. “It's ivory, sixteen spikes, carved in a swirl pattern that forms a rose in full bloom when it's opened. I'd gauge it at mid-seventeenth century. It was already an heirloom when the
Isabella
went down.”

He twined a lock of her hair around his finger, kept his eyes on hers. “Who owned it?”

“I don't know.” Sighing, she turned her cheek toward his hand. “I wondered if it might have belonged to a young bride. It would have been passed down to her. She might have held it on her wedding day, as something old. She'd never use it; it would be too precious to her. But now and again, she'd take it out of the box she kept in her dressing table. She'd open it, run her finger over the rose and think of how happy she'd been when she'd carried it down the aisle.”

“Do women still do that?” Touched by the vision, he took her untouched wine, set it aside. “Something old, something new?”

“I suppose they do.” Her head fell back as he skimmed
his lips along the line of her jaw. “If they want a traditional wedding. The once-in-a-lifetime white dress and train. The music, the flowers.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don't—” Her heart stuttered when his mouth cruised over hers. “I haven't thought about it. Marriage isn't a priority for me.” Pulse quickening, she skimmed her hands under his shirt to run them along his back. “God, I love your body. Make love with me, Matthew.” Greedily, and a little rough, she scraped her teeth over his throat. “Now. Right now.”

If that was all there could be, he'd take it. He'd take her. But she wouldn't forget, by God, she'd never forget it had been he who had stripped away every layer of that logic.

In one fierce move, he wrapped her hair around his hand, used it to yank her head back. As she opened her mouth in surprise at the sudden ruthlessness, he plundered it.

She made a sound in her throat, part protest, part arousal. Her hands came to his shoulders to pry herself free, but his darted up the baggy leg of her shorts. His fingers drove into her and shot her into a shocking and violent orgasm.

Her legs buckled. He took no time for the niceties of a blanket this time, but dragged her to the floor. Even as she gasped for breath, he was on her. His hands and mouth were everywhere, tugging, tearing at her clothes to ravish the flesh beneath.

She writhed beneath him, clawed, but not in defense. Some part of her mind realized that volcano had finally erupted. She churned in the dark, mindless pleasure as it poured its lethal heat over her. His mouth and tongue were on her, forcing her to accept a new and terrifying level of madness. As greedy as he, she arched against him, felt the hot spurt of her own jittery climax.

“Now.” She wanted to scream it. Desperate, she fumbled for him. “Oh God, now.”

But he streaked up her body, pinned her hands over her head. When she opened her eyes, the light dazzled them.

“No, you look at me,” he demanded when her lashes fluttered down again. “You look right at me.” His lungs were burning and the words ground in his throat like glass. But her eyes opened, an unfocused, swimming green. “Can you think?”

“Matthew.” Her hand strained against his. “Take me now. I can't stand it.”

“I can.” Linking her wrists in one hand, he cupped the other over her hot center so that she bucked wildly under him. She came again, violently. He bit back his own groan when her arms went to water under his grip. “Can you think?” he repeated.

But she was beyond words, beyond sight. Her senses were scattered, a tangle of live wires that sparked and sizzled through her system. When he released her hands, she didn't move, but lay defenseless against the next onslaught.

He devoured her, inch by inch, pale flesh, delicate curves. When he could feel himself all but being absorbed into her, when her mouth was as hungrily avid as his again, he thrust into her.

 

She felt battered and bruised and blissful. His weight pinned her to the unforgiving floor, and she thought vaguely of the aches she would have in the morning. Somehow she found the strength to stroke a hand over his hair.

She felt sorry for every woman who didn't have Matthew Lassiter as a lover.

“I could use that wine,” she managed in a voice that came huskily through a dry throat. “Any chance you can reach it? Or if not, if you can roll off, I might be able to crawl a few feet.”

He pushed himself up and wondered how he could feel drained, satisfied, pleased and ashamed all at once. He brought both glasses back, sat beside her on the floor.

With effort, she lifted rockily to her elbow and took the glass. A long, cooling sip did a great deal to steady her. “What,” she asked slowly, “was that?”

He jerked a shoulder. “Sex.”

After a long, appreciative breath, she smiled. “Not that I'm complaining, but it seemed a little more like war.”

“As long as we both won.” Since he'd already drained his glass, he rose to fetch the bottle.

The last thing she'd expected after such wild intimacy was the cool tone. Concerned, she laid a hand on his knee. “Matthew, is something wrong?”

“No. Everything's dandy.” He tossed back more wine, stared into the glass. “Sorry if I got too rough.”

“No.” Though she couldn't have said where it had sprung from, tenderness welled inside her. Very gently, she cupped his cheek. “Matthew . . .” Words fumbled inside her head, inside her heart. She struggled to choose the ones best suited to what they had together. “Making love with you is extraordinary, every time. No one's ever . . .” No, it seemed wise to back off from that. “I've never,” she corrected, “felt more free with anyone.” She tried a smile, a lightness. “I guess it comes from both of us knowing where we stand.”

“Right, we know where we stand.” He cupped the back of her head, held firm as his gaze drilled into hers. “Sometimes, you can stand in one place too long.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

He pulled her up, crushed his mouth against hers until he tasted his own mistakes. “Maybe I don't, either. I'd better go.”

“Don't.” Compelled by emotions fighting to be free, she took his hand. “Don't go, Matthew. I . . . it's a nice night for a swim. Will you come with me? I don't want to be without you yet.”

He turned her hand over, pressed his lips to the palm in a way that made her eyes film. “I don't want to be without you, either.”

 

All this time, VanDyke thought. All these years, the Lassiters had played him for a fool. It was all clear now.

Unwilling to waste time with sleep, he pored over the papers LaRue had sent him, reading over the words again and again until he all but knew them by rote. He had
underestimated them, he decided, and blamed himself for so careless a mistake.

Too many mistakes, he thought, carefully dabbing at the sweat that beaded above his lip. All because the amulet remained out of reach.

James Lassiter had known where to find Angelique's Curse, and had likely died laughing at his murderer. VanDyke was not a man to be laughed at.

Curling a fist around a jeweled letter opener, he viciously and mindlessly hacked through the creamy upholstery of a Queen Anne occasional chair. Brocade ripped like flesh, sounding like tiny screams as horsehair vomited out. The oval mirror on the wall reflected his face, wild and white, as he stabbed and tore.

His fingers were cramped and aching when the lovely little seat was no more than rags. His breath heaved in and out, sobbing on the air over the sounds of Mozart from the recessed speakers.

Shuddering once, he let the antique weapon drop onto the carpet, stumbled back from his latest work. It was only a chair, he thought as the sweat dried calmly on his skin. Only a thing, easily replaced. To help settle his uneasy stomach, he poured a soothing brandy.

That was better, he assured himself. It was natural for a man to let his temper out, especially a strong man. Holding it in only caused ulcers and headaches and self-doubt.

That's what his father had done, VanDyke recalled. Rather than making him strong, it had weakened him. It seemed he was thinking of his father, and his mother, more and more lately. Remembering how flawed they were, finding comfort in the fact that he had escaped all their weaknesses. No, no, had triumphed over the weaknesses of mind and body.

His mother's brain had betrayed her; his father's heart had killed him. But their son had learned to keep both strong.

Yes, it was better, much better to vent. Sipping, he took a calming turn around his office aboard the
Triumphant.

Momentary physical release was sometimes necessary, he told himself, pursing his lips as he studied the rags of
silken material that were scattered over the floor. It purged the blood.

But a cool head was imperative. And, of course, he rarely lost his.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he admitted, he had been a bit impulsive when he'd killed James Lassiter. But he'd been younger then, less mature. And he really had hated the bastard so.

Yet now to know that even in death James had tricked him . . . Fury clawed through him again, so ferociously that VanDyke had to close his eyes, struggle through his deep-breathing exercises to prevent himself from hurling the snifter and shattering the lovely Baccarat.

No, the Lassiters would cost him nothing more, he promised himself. Not even the price of a glass of brandy. Settled again, he walked out on deck to let the balm of the night air caress him.

The yacht moved swiftly through the Pacific, Costa Rica to the east.

He'd nearly taken his jet to the West Indies before he'd controlled the impatience. The time it would take to get there by sea would be put to very good use. His plans were already formulating, and with his own man part of Lassiter's team, it was almost like being there himself.