The Reef

  The shape became a diver. Sleek and fast as a shark, perhaps, but a man. Her breath whooshed out in a stream of bubbles before she remembered to regulate it. The diver signaled to her, then to the man swimming in his wake.

  Tate found herself face mask to face mask with a recklessly grinning face, eyes as blue as the sea around them. Dark hair streamed in the current. She could see he was laughing at her, undoubtedly having guessed her reaction to the unexpected company. He held his hands up, a gesture of peace, until she sheathed her knife. Then he winked and sent a fluid salute toward Ray.

  As silent greetings were exchanged, Tate studied the newcomers. Their equipment was good, and included those necessary items of the treasure seeker. The goody bag, the knife, the wrist compass and diver’s watch. The first man was young, lean in his black wet suit. His gesturing hands were wide-palmed, long-fingered, and carried the nicks and scars of a veteran hunter.

  The second man was bald, thick in the middle, but as agile as a fish in his undersea movements. Tate could see he was reaching some sort of tacit agreement with her father. She wanted to protest. This was their spot. After all, they’d been there first.

  But she could do no more than frown as her father curled his fingers into an “okay” sign. The four of them spread out to explore.

  Tate went back to another mound to fan. Her father’s research indicated that four ships of the Spanish fleet had gone down north of Nevis and St. Kitts during the hurricane of July 11, 1733. Two, the San Cristobal and the Vaca, had been discovered and salvaged years earlier, broken on the reefs near Dieppe Bay. This left, undiscovered and untouched, the Santa Marguerite and the Isabella.

  Documents and manifests boasted that these ships carried much more than cargoes of sugar from the islands. There were jewels and porcelain and more than ten million pesos of gold and silver. In addition, if true to the custom of the day, there would be the hoards secreted by the passengers and seamen.

  Both wrecks would be very rich indeed. More than that, discovery would be one of the major finds of the century.

  Finding nothing, Tate moved on, bearing north. The competition from the other divers caused her to keep her eyes and her instincts sharp. A school of gem-bright fish speared around her in a perfect vee, a slice of color within color. Delighted, she swam through their bubbles.

  Competition or not, she would always enjoy the small things. She explored tirelessly, fanning sand and studying fish with equal enthusiasm.

  It looked like a rock at first glance. Still, training had her swimming toward it. She was no more than a yard away when something streaked by her. She saw with faint irritation that scarred, long-fingered hand reach down and close over the rock.

  Jerk, she thought, and was about to turn away when she saw him work it free. Not a rock at all, but the crusted handle of a sword that he drew from the scabbard of the sea. Grinning around his mouthpiece, he hefted it.

  He had the nerve to salute her with it, cutting a swatch through the water. As he headed up, Tate went after him. They broke the surface in tandem.

  She spit out her mouthpiece. “I saw it first.”

  “I don’t think so.” Still grinning, he levered up his face mask. “Anyway, you were slow, and I wasn’t. Finders keepers.”

  “Rules of salvage,” she said, struggling for calm. “You were in my space.”

  “The way I see it, you were in mine. Better luck next time.”

  “Tate, honey.” From the deck of the Adventure, Marla Beaumont waved her hands and called out. “Lunch is ready. Invite your friend and come aboard.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” In a few powerful strokes, he was at the stern of the Adventure. The sword hit the deck with a clatter, his flippers followed.

  Cursing the poor beginning to what had promised to be a wonderful summer, Tate headed in. Ignoring his gallantly offered hand, she hauled herself in just as her father and the other diver broke the surface.

  “Nice meeting you.” He dragged a hand through his dripping hair and smiled charmingly at Marla. “Matthew Lassiter.”

  “Marla Beaumont. Welcome aboard.” Tate’s mother beamed at Matthew from under the wide brim of her flowered sun hat. She was a striking woman, with porcelain skin and a willowy frame beneath loose and flowing shirt and slacks. She tipped down her dark glasses in greeting.

  “I see you’ve met my daughter, Tate, and my husband, Ray.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Matthew unhooked his weight belt, set it and his mask aside. “Nice rig here.”

  “Oh yes, thank you.” Marla looked proudly around the deck. She wasn’t a fan of housework, but there was nothing she liked better than keeping the Adventure spit and polished. “And that’s your boat there.” She gestured off the bow. “The Sea Devil.”

  Tate snorted at the name. It was certainly apt, she thought, for the man, and the boat. Unlike the Adventure, the Sea Devil didn’t gleam. The old fishing boat badly needed painting. At a distance, it looked like little more than a tub floating on the brilliant platter of the sea.

  “Nothing fancy,” Matthew was saying, “but she runs.” He walked over to offer a hand to the other divers.

  “Good eye, boy.” Buck Lassiter slapped Matthew on the back. “This boy was born with the knack,” he said to Ray in a voice as rough as broken glass, then belatedly held out a hand. “Buck Lassiter, my nephew, Matthew.”

  Ignoring the introductions making their way around the deck, Tate stowed her equipment, then tugged out of her wet suit. While the others admired the sword, she ducked into the deckhouse and cut through to her cabin.

  It wasn’t anything unusual, she supposed as she found an oversized T-shirt. Her parents were always making friends with strangers, inviting them onboard, fixing them meals. Her father had simply never developed the wary and suspicious manner of a veteran treasure hunter. Instead her parents shimmered with Southern hospitality.

  Normally she found the trait endearing. She only wished they would be a little choosy.

  She heard her father offer cheerful congratulations to Matthew on his find, and gritted her teeth.

  Damn it, she’d seen it first.

  Sulking, Matthew decided as he offered the sword to Ray for examination. A peculiarly female trait. And there was no doubt the little redhead was female. Her copper-toned hair might be cut short as a boy’s, but she’d certainly filled out that excuse for a bikini just fine.

  Pretty enough, too, he mused. Her face might have been all angles, with cheekbones sharp enough to slice a man’s exploring finger, but she had big, delicious green eyes. Eyes, he recalled, that had shot prickly little darts at him in the water, and out.

  That only made annoying her more interesting.

  Since they were going to be diving in the same pool for a while, he might as well enjoy himself.

  He was sitting cross-legged on the forward sundeck when Tate came back out. She gave him a quick glance, having nearly talked herself out of the sulks. His skin was bronzed, and against his chest winked a silver piece of eight hanging from a chain. She wanted to ask him about it, to hear where he’d found it, and how.

  But he was smirking at her. Manners, pride and curiosity collided with a wall that kept her unnaturally silent as conversation flowed around her.

  Matthew bit into one of Marla’s generous ham sandwiches.

  “Terrific, Mrs. Beaumont. A lot better than the swill Buck and I are used to.”

  “You have some more of this potato salad.” Flattered, she heaped a mound on his paper plate. “And it’s Marla, dear. Tate, you come on and get yourself some lunch.”

  “Tate.” Matthew squinted against the sun as he studied her. “Unusual name.”

  “Marla’s maiden name.” Ray slipped an arm over his wife’s shoulders. He sat in wet bathing trunks, enjoying the warmth and company. His silvered hair danced in the light breeze. “Tate here’s been diving since she was pint-sized. Couldn’t ask for a better partner. Marla loves the sea, loves to sail, but she barely swims
a stroke.”

  With a chuckle, Marla refilled tall glasses of iced tea. “I like looking at the water. Being in it’s something different altogether.” She sat back placidly with her drink. “Once it gets past my knees, I just panic. I always wonder if I drowned in a former life. So for this one, I’m happy tending the boat.”

  “And a fine one she is.” Buck had already assessed the Adventure. A tidy thirty-eight footer, teak decking, fancy brightwork. He’d guess she carried two staterooms, a full galley. Without his prescription face mask, he could still make out the massive windows of the pilothouse. He’d liked to have taken his fingers for a walk through the engine and control station.

  A look around later was in order, after he had his glasses. Even without them, he calculated that the diamond on Marla’s finger was a good five carats, and the gold circle on her right hand was antique.

  He smelled money.

  “So, Ray . . .” Casually, he tipped back his glass. “Matthew and me, we’ve been diving around here for the past few weeks. Haven’t seen you.”

  “First dive today. We sailed down from North Carolina, started out the day Tate finished her spring semester.”

  College girl. Matthew took a hard swallow of cold tea. Jesus. He deliberately turned his gaze away from her legs and concentrated on his lunch. All bets were definitely off, he decided. He was nearly twenty-five and didn’t mess with snotty college kids.

  “We’re going to spend the summer here,” Ray went on. “Possibly longer. Last winter, we dived off the coast of Mexico a few weeks. Couple of good wrecks there, but mostly played out. We managed to bring up a thing or two though. Some nice pottery, some clay pipes.”

  “And those lovely perfume bottles,” Marla put in.

  “Been at it awhile, then,” Buck prompted.

  “Ten years.” Ray’s eyes shone. “Fifteen since the first time I went down.” He leaned forward, hunter to hunter. “Friend of mine talked me into scuba lessons. After I’d certified, I went with him to Diamond Shoals. Only took one dive to hook me.”

  “Now he spends every free minute diving, planning a dive or talking about the last dive.” Marla let out her lusty laugh. Her eyes, the same rich green as her daughter’s, danced. “So I learned how to handle a boat.”

  “Me, I’ve been hunting more than forty years.” Buck scooped up the last of his potato salad. He hadn’t eaten so well in more than a month. “In the blood. My father was the same. We salvaged off the coast of Florida, before the government got so tight-assed. Me, my father and my brother. The Lassiters.”

  “Yes, of course.” Ray slapped a hand on his knee. “I’ve read about you. Your father was Big Matt Lassiter. Found the El Diablo off Conch Key in ’sixty-four.”

  “ ’Sixty-three,” Buck corrected, with a grin. “Found it, and the fortune she held. The kind of gold a man dreams of, jewels, ingots of silver. I held in my hand a gold chain with a figure of a dragon. A fucking gold dragon,” he said, then stopped, flushed. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

  “No need.” Fascinated with the image, Marla urged another sandwich on him. “What was it like?”

  “Like nothing you can imagine.” At ease again, Buck chomped into ham. “There were rubies for its eyes, emeralds in its tail.” Bitterly, he looked down at his hands now and found them empty. “It was worth five fortunes.”

  Caught up in the wonder, Ray stared. “Yes. I’ve seen pictures of it. Diablo’s Dragon. You brought it up. Extraordinary.”

  “The state closed in,” Buck continued. “Kept us in court for years. Claimed the three-mile limit started at the end of the reef, not at shore. Bastards bled us dry before it was done. In the end they took, and we lost. No better than pirates,” he said and finished off his drink.

  “How terrible for you,” Marla murmured. “To have done all that, discovered all that, only to have it taken.”

  “Broke the old man’s heart. Never did dive again.” Buck moved his shoulders. “Well, there are other wrecks. Other treasures.” Buck judged his man, and gambled. “Like the Santa Marguerite, the Isabella.”

  “Yes, they’re here.” Ray met Buck’s eye steadily. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Could be.” Matthew picked up the sword, turned it over in his hands. “Or it could be that both of them were swept out to sea. There’s no record of survivors. Only two ships crashed on the reef.”

  Ray lifted a finger. “Ah, but witnesses of the day claim they saw the Isabella and the Santa Marguerite go down. Survivors from the other ships saw the waves rise and scuttle them.”

  Matthew lifted his gaze to Ray’s, nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Matthew’s a cynic,” Buck commented. “Keeps me level. I’m going to tell you something, Ray.” He leaned forward, pale blue eyes keen. “I’ve been doing research of my own. Five years on and off. Three years ago, the boy and I spent better than six months combing these waters—mostly the two-mile stretch between St. Kitts and Nevis and the peninsula area. We found this, we found that, but we didn’t find those two ships. But I know they’re here.”

  “Well, now.” Ray tugged on his bottom lip, a gesture that Tate knew meant he was considering. “I think you were looking in the wrong spot, Buck. Not that I want to say I’d know more about it. The ships took off from Nevis, but from what I’ve been able to piece together, the two lost wrecks made it farther north, just past the tip of Saint Kitts before they broke.”

  Buck’s lips curved. “I figure the same. It’s a big sea, Ray.” He flicked a glance toward Matthew and was rewarded with a careless shrug. “I’ve got forty years experience, and the boy’s been diving since he could walk. What I don’t have is financial backing.”

  As a man who had worked his way up to CEO of a top brokerage firm before his early retirement, Ray knew a deal when it was placed on the table. “You’re looking for a partnership, Buck. We’d have to talk about that. Discuss terms, percentages.” Rising, Ray flashed a smile. “Why don’t we step into my office?”

  “Well, then.” Marla smiled as her husband and Buck stepped into the deckhouse. “I think I’m going to sit in the shade and nap over my book. You children entertain yourselves.” She moved off under a striped awning and settled down with her iced tea and a paperback novel.

  “I guess I’ll go over and clean up my booty.” Matthew reached for a large plastic bag. “Mind if I borrow this?” Without waiting for a response, he loaded his gear into it, then hefted his tanks. “Want to give me a hand?”

  “No.”

  He only lifted a brow. “I figured you might want to see how this cleans up.” He gestured with the sword, waited to see if her curiosity would overpower her irritation. He didn’t wait long.

  With a mutter, she snatched the plastic bag and took it down the ladder to the swim step and over the side with her.

  The Sea Devil looked worse close up. Tate judged its sway in the current expertly and hauled herself over the rail. She caught a faint whiff of fish.

  Gear was carefully stowed and secured. But the deck needed washing as much as it needed painting. The windows on the tiny wheelhouse where a hammock swung were smudged and smeared with salt and smoke. A couple of overturned buckets, and a second hammock, served as seats.

  “It’s not the Queen Mary.” Matthew stored his tanks. “But it’s not the Titanic either. She ain’t pretty, but she’s seaworthy.”

  He took the bag from her and stored his wet suit in a large plastic garbage can. “Want a drink?”

  Tate took another slow look around. “Got anything sterilized?”

  He flipped open the lid of an ice chest, fished out a Pepsi. Tate caught it on the fly and sat down on a bucket. “You’re living on board.”

  “That’s right.” He went into the wheelhouse. When she heard him rattling around, she reached over to stroke the sword he’d laid across the other bucket.

  Had it graced the belt of some Spanish captain with lace at his cuffs and recklessness in his soul? Had he killed buccaneers with it, or worn it for style? Perh
aps he had gripped it in a white-knuckled hand as the wind and the waves had battered his ship.

  And no one since then had felt its weight.

  She looked up, saw Matthew standing at the wheelhouse door watching her. Furiously embarrassed, Tate snatched her hand back, took a casual drink from her Pepsi.

  “We have a sword at home,” she said evenly. “Sixteenth century.” She didn’t add that they had only the hilt, and that it was broken.

  “Good for you.” He took the sword, settled with it on the deck. He was already regretting the impulsive invitation. It didn’t do much good for him to keep repeating to himself that she was too young. Not with her T-shirt wet and molded against her, and those creamy, just sun-kissed legs looking longer than they had a right to. And that voice—half whiskey, half prim lemonade—didn’t belong to a child, but to a woman. Or it should have.

  She frowned, watching him patiently working on the corrosion. She hadn’t expected those scarred, rough-looking hands to be patient.

  “Why do you want partners?”

  He didn’t look up. “Didn’t say I did.”

  “But your uncle—”

  “That’s Buck.” Matthew lifted a shoulder. “He handles the business.”

  She propped her elbows on her knees, her chin in the heels of her hands. “What do you handle?”

  He glanced up then, and his eyes, restless despite the patience of his hands, clashed with hers. “The hunt.”

  She understood that, exactly, and smiled at him with an