The Reef (3 page)

“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? Perhaps 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 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.

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 discovery 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, the ambushing moray darted from his cave to clamp his jaws over the unwary grouper.

She didn't flinch from her up-close seat of instant death, but studied it. And he had to admit she was a good diver. Strong, skilled, sensible. She didn't like working with him, but she held up her end.

He knew that most amateurs became discouraged if they didn't stumble across some stray coin or artifact within an hour. But she was systematic and apparently tireless. Two other traits he appreciated in a diving partner.

If they were going to be stuck with each other, at least for a couple of months, he might as well make the best of it.

In what he considered a gesture of truce, he swam over, tapped her shoulder. She glanced over, her eyes bland behind her mask. Matthew pointed behind them and watched those eyes brighten with appreciation when she spotted the school of tiny silver-tipped minnows. In a glinting wave, they veered as a mass barely six inches from Tate's outstretched hand, and vanished.

She was still grinning when she saw the barracuda.

It was perhaps a yard off, hovering motionless with its toothy grin and staring eyes. This time she pointed. When
Matthew noted that she was amused rather than afraid, he resumed his search.

Tate glanced back occasionally to be certain their movements didn't attract their audience. But the barracuda remained placidly at a distance. Sometime later when she looked back, he was gone.

She saw the conglomerate just as Matthew's hand closed over it. Disgusted, and certain only her inattention had kept her from finding it first, she swam another few yards to the north.

It irritated her the way he seemed to work in her pocket. If she didn't keep her eye on him, he was practically at her shoulder. In a gesture of dismissal, she kicked away, damned if she'd let him think his misshapen hunk of rock interested her, however promising its pebbly surface.