The Reef Read online

  eagerness that ignored the sword between them. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Thinking about what could be there, and that you might be the one to find it. Where did you find the coin?” At his baffled look, she grinned and reached out to touch the disk of silver at his chest. “The piece of eight.”

  “My first real salvage dive,” he told her, wishing she didn’t look so appealingly fresh and friendly. “California. We lived there for a while. What are you doing diving for treasure instead of driving some college boy nuts?”

  Tate tossed her head and tried her hand at sophistication. “Boys are easy,” she drawled, and slid down to sit on the deck across from him. “I like challenges.”

  The quick twist in his gut warned him. “Careful, little girl,” he murmured.

  “I’m twenty,” she said with all the frigid pride of burgeoning womanhood. Or she would be, she amended, by summer’s end. “Why are you out here diving for treasure instead of working for a living?”

  Now he grinned. “Because I’m good. If you’d been better, you’d have this, and I wouldn’t.”

  Rather than dignify that with a response, she took another sip of Pepsi. “Why isn’t your father along? Has he given up diving?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He’s dead.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Nine years ago,” Matthew continued, and kept cleaning the sword. “We were doing some hunting off of Australia.”

  “A diving accident?”

  “No. He was too good to have an accident.” He picked up the can she’d set down, took a swallow. “He was murdered.”

  It took Tate a moment. Matthew had spoken so matter-of-factly that the word “murder” didn’t register. “My God, how—”

  “I don’t know, for sure.” Nor did he know why he had told her. “He went down alive; we brought him up dead. Hand me that rag.”

  “But—”

  “That was the end of it,” he said and reached for the rag himself. “No use dwelling on the past.”

  She had an urge to lay a hand on his scarred one, but judged, correctly, that he’d snap it off at the wrist. “An odd statement from a treasure hunter.”

  “Babe, it’s what it brings you now that counts. And this ain’t bad.”

  Distracted, she looked back down at the hilt. As Matthew rubbed, she began to see the gleam. “Silver,” she murmured. “It’s silver. A mark of rank. I knew it.”

  “It’s a nice piece.”

  Forgetting everything but the find, she leaned closer, let her fingertip skim along the gleam. “I think it’s eighteenth-century.”

  His eyes smiled. “Do you?”

  “I’m majoring in marine archeology.” She gave her bangs an impatient push. “It could have belonged to the captain.”

  “Or any other officer,” Matthew said dryly. “But it’ll keep me in beer and shrimp for a while.”

  Stunned, she jerked back. “You’re going to sell it? You’re just going to sell it? For money?”

  “I’m not going to sell it for clamshells.”

  “But don’t you want to know where it came from, who it came from?”

  “Not particularly.” He turned the cleaned portion of the hilt toward the sun, watched it glint in the light. “There’s an antique dealer on Saint Bart’s who’ll give me a square deal.”

  “That’s horrible. That’s . . .” She searched for the worst insult she could imagine. “Ignorant.” In a flash, she was on her feet. “To just sell it that way. For all you know, it may have belonged to the captain of the Isabella or the Santa Marguerite. That would be a historic find. It could belong in a museum.”

  Amateurs, Matthew thought in disgust. “It belongs where I put it.” He rose fluidly. “I found it.”

  Her heart stuttered at the thought of it wasting away in some dusty antique shop, or worse, being bought by some careless tourist who would hang it on the wall of his den.

  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it.”

  His grin flashed. “Red, I could get more than that by melting down the hilt.”

  She paled at the thought. “You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t.” When he only cocked his head, she bit her lip. The stereo system she envisioned gracing her college dorm room would have to wait. “Two hundred then. It’s all I have saved.”

  “I’ll take my chances on Saint Bart’s.”

  Color flooded back into her cheeks. “You’re nothing but an opportunist.”

  “You’re right. And you’re an idealist.” He smiled as she stood in front of him, hands fisted, eyes fired. Over her shoulder, he caught movement on the deck of the Adventure. “And for better or worse, Red, it looks like we’re partners.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  He took her by the shoulders. For one startled minute, she thought he meant to heave her overboard. But he simply turned her until she faced her own boat.

  Her heart sank as she watched her father and Buck Lassiter shake hands.

  CHAPTER 2

  A BRILLIANT SUNSET poured gold and pink across the sky and melted into the sea. The glory was followed by the finger-snap twilight so usual in the tropics. Over the calm water came the scratchy sound of a portable radio aboard the Sea Devil that did little justice to the bouncy reggae beat. The air might have been redolent with the scent of sautéing fish, but Tate’s mood was foul.

  “I don’t see why we need partners.” Tate propped her elbows on the narrow table in the galley and frowned at her mother’s back.

  “Your father took a real shine to Buck.” Marla sprinkled crushed rosemary into the pan. “It’s good for him to have a man near his own age to pal around with.”

  “He has us,” Tate grumbled.

  “Of course he has.” Marla smiled over her shoulder. “But men need men, honey. They’ve just got to spit and belch now and again.”

  Tate snorted at the idea of her impeccably mannered father doing either. “The point is we don’t know anything about them. I mean, they just showed up in our space.” She was still smarting over the sword. “Dad spent months researching these wrecks. Why should we trust the Lassiters?”

  “Because they’re Lassiters,” Ray said as he swung into the galley. Bending over, he planted a noisy kiss on the top of Tate’s head. “Our girl’s got a suspicious nature, Marla.” He winked at his wife, then because it was his turn for galley duty, began to set the table. “That’s a good thing, to a point. It’s not smart to believe everything you see, everything you hear. But sometimes you’ve got to go with the gut. Mine tells me the Lassiters are just what we need to round out this little adventure.”

  “How?” Tate propped her chin on her fist. “Matthew Lassiter is arrogant and shortsighted and—”

  “Young.” Ray finished with a twinkle in his eye. “Marla, that smells wonderful.” He slipped his arms around her waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. She smelled of suntan lotion and Chanel.

  “Then let’s sit down and see how it tastes.”

  But Tate wasn’t willing to let the matter drop. “Dad, do you know what he plans to do with that sword? He’s just going to sell it to some dealer.”

  Ray sat and pursed his lips. “Most salvagers sell their booty, honey. That’s how they make a living.”

  “Well, that’s fine.” Tate took the platter her mother offered automatically and chose her portion. “But it should be dated and assessed first. He doesn’t even care what it is or who it belonged to. To him it’s just something to trade for a case of beer.”

  “That’s a shame.” Marla sighed as Ray poured dinner wine into her glass. “And I know how you feel, honey. The Tates have always been defenders of history.”

  “And the Beaumonts,” her husband put in. “It’s the Southern way. You have a point, Tate.” Ray gestured with his fork. “And I sympathize. But I also understand Matthew’s side of it. The quick turnaround, the quick profit for his efforts. If his grandfather had taken that route, he’d have died a rich man. Instead, he chose to share his discove
ry and ended up with nothing.”

  “There’s a middle ground,” Tate insisted.

  “Not for some. But I believe Buck and I found it. If we find the Isabella or the Santa Marguerite, we’ll apply for a lease, if we’re not outside the limit. Regardless, we’ll share what we salvage with the government of Saint Kitts and Nevis, a term he agreed to reluctantly.” Ray lifted his glass, eyed the wine. “He agreed to it because we have something he needs.”

  “What do we have?” Tate wanted to know.

  “We have a strong enough financial base to continue this operation for some time with or without results. We can afford the time, as we agreed you could defer the upcoming fall semester. And if it becomes an issue, we can afford the equipment needed for an extensive salvage operation.”

  “So, they’re using us.” Exasperated, Tate pushed her plate aside. “That’s my point, Dad.”

  “In a partnership, one-half must have use of the other.”

  Far from convinced, Tate rose to pour herself a glass of fresh lemonade. In theory, she wasn’t against partnership. From an early age, she’d been taught the value of teamwork. It was this specific team she worried over. “And what are they bringing into this partnership?”

  “In the first place, they’re professionals. We’re amateurs.” Ray waved a hand as Tate started to protest. “However much I like to dream otherwise, I’ve never discovered a wreck, only explored those found and salvaged by others. Oh, we’ve been lucky a few times.” He picked up Marla’s hand, ran a thumb around the gold ring she wore. “Brought up trinkets others have overlooked. Since my first dive, I’ve dreamed of finding an undiscovered ship.”

  “And you will,” Marla claimed with undiluted faith.

  “This could be the one.” Tate dragged a hand through her hair. As much as she loved her parents, their lack of practicality baffled her. “Dad, all the research you’ve done, the archives, the manifests, the letters. The way you worked on the records of the storm, the tides, everything. You’ve put so much work into this.”

  “I have,” he agreed. “And because of that, I’m very interested that a great deal of Buck’s research aligns with mine. I can learn so much from him. Do you know he worked for three years in the North Atlantic, in depths of five hundred feet and more? Frigid water, dark water. He’s salvaged in mud, in coral, in the feeding area of shark. Imagine it.”

  Tate could see he was, the way his eyes unfocused, how his lips curved with dreams. With a sigh, she set a hand on his shoulder. “Dad, just because he’s had more experience—”

  “A lifetime more.” Ray reached back, patted her hand. “That’s what he brings to us. Experience, perseverance, the mind of a hunter. And something as basic as manpower. Two teams, Tate, are more efficient than one.” He paused. “Tate, it’s important to me that you understand my decision. If you can’t accept it, I’ll tell Buck the deal’s off.”

  And that would cost him, Tate thought, miserably. Pride, because he’d already given his word. Hope, because he was counting on the success of this new team.

  “I understand it,” she said, tucking her personal distaste aside. “And I can accept it. Just one more question.”

  “Ask away,” Ray invited.

  “How can we be sure that when their team goes down, they won’t keep whatever they find to themselves?”

  “Because we’re splitting the partnership.” He stood to clear the table. “I’ll dive with Buck. You’ll dive with Matthew.”

  “Isn’t that a nice idea?” Marla chuckled to herself at her daughter’s horrified expression. “Who wants a piece of cake?”

  Dawn spread over the water in bronze and rose streaks that mirrored the sky. The air was pure as silver and deliciously warm. In the distance, the high bluffs of St. Kitts awoke to the light in misty greens and browns. Farther south, the volcano cone that dominated the little island of Nevis was shrouded in clouds. Sugar-white beaches were deserted.

  A trio of pelicans skimmed by, then dived with three quick, nearly soundless plops, shooting the water high in a cascade of individual drops. They rose again, skimmed again, dived again, in comical unity. Wavelets lapped lazily against the hull.

  Slowly, beautifully, the light strengthened, and the water was sapphire.

  Tate’s mood wasn’t lifted by the scenery as she suited up. She checked her diver’s watch, her wrist compass, the gauges on her tanks. While her father and Buck shared coffee and conversation on the foredeck, she strapped her diver’s knife onto her calf.

  Beside her, Matthew mirrored the routine.

  “I’m not any happier about this than you are,” he muttered. He hefted her tanks, helped her secure them.

  “That brightens my mood.”

  They attached weight belts, eyeing each other with mutual distrust. “Just try to keep up, and stay out of my way. We’ll be fine.”

  “Really.” She spat into her mask, rubbed, rinsed. “Why don’t you stay out of my way?” She plastered a smile on her face as Buck and her father sauntered over.

  “Set?” Ray asked her, checking her tank harnesses himself. He glanced at the bright-orange plastic bottle that served as a marker. It bobbed quietly on calm seas. “Remember your direction.”

  “North by northwest—just like Cary Grant.” Tate pecked his cheek, sniffed his aftershave. “Don’t worry.”

  He didn’t worry, Ray told himself. Of course he didn’t. It was just rare that his little girl went down without him. “Have fun.”

  Buck hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts. His legs were stubby trunks knobbed by prominent knees. Covering his bald pate was an oil-smeared Dodgers fielder’s cap. His eyes were masked by tinted prescription glasses.

  Tate thought he looked like an overweight, poorly dressed gnome. For some reason, she found it appealing. “I’ll keep an eye on your nephew, Buck.”

  He grinned at that, his laugh like gravel hitting stone. “You do that, girl. And good hunting.”

  With a nod, Tate executed a smooth back roll from the rail, and headed down. She waited, as a responsible partner, for Matthew’s dive. The moment she saw him enter the water, she turned and swam toward the bottom.

  Sea fans the color of lilacs waved gracefully in the current. Fish, startled by the intrusion, darted away, a colorful stream of life and motion. If she had been with her father, she might have lingered to enjoy the moment, that always-stunning transition between being a creature of the air, and one of the sea.

  She might have taken the time to gather a few pretty shells for her mother, or remained still long enough to coax a fish to glide over and inspect the newcomer.

  But with Matthew closing the distance between them, Tate was struck less by the wonder of it than by a keen sense of competition.

  Let’s see him try to keep up, she decided, and kicking hard, skimmed westward. The water cooled on descent, but remained comfortable. It was a pity, she thought, that they were far from the more interesting reefs and coral gardens, but there was enough to please the senses—the water itself, the sway of fans, a flashing fish.

  She kept her eyes peeled for lumps or discolorations in the sand. Damned if she’d miss something and let him surface in triumph again.

  She reached for a broken piece of coral, examined it, discarded it. Matthew swam by her, taking the lead. Though Tate reminded herself the change of lead was basic diving procedure, she fretted until she could once more take the point.

  They communicated only when strictly necessary. After agreeing to spread out, they kept each other in view. As much, Tate thought, in suspicion as safety.

  For an hour, they combed the area where they had found the sword. Tate’s first sense of anticipation began to wane when they discovered nothing more. Once she fanned away at sand, her heart thumping as she caught a glint. Her visions of some ancient shoe buckle or plate faded when she uncovered a twentieth-century can of Coke.

  Discouraged, she swam farther north. Here, suddenly, a vast undersea garden of brightly patterned
shells and coral with darting fish feeding. Lovely branched coral, too fragile to survive the wave action of shallow water, speared and spread in ruby and emerald and mustard yellow. It was home to dozens of creatures that hid in it, fed on it, or indeed fed it.

  Pleasure slid through her as she watched a volute with its pumpkin-colored shell creep its laborious way along a rock. A clown fish darted through the purple-tipped tentacles of a sea anemone, immune to their stinging. A trio of regal angelfish glided along, a formation in search of breakfast.

  Like a kid in a candy store, Matthew thought, as he watched her. She was holding her position with slow movements, her eyes darting as she tried to take in everything at once.

  He’d liked to have dismissed her as foolish, but he appreciated the sea’s theater. Both the drama and comedy continued around them—the sunny yellow wrasses busily cleaning the demanding queen triggerfish, devoted as ladies-in-waiting. There, quick and lethal,