The Reef (10 page)

Matthew fished Caribbean bills from his wallet as Tate climbed out. In seconds, the rain plastered her hair to her head.

“Dad gave me the room keys,” she began. “It's not the Ritz.” She tried another smile as they entered the tiny lobby crowded with wicker chairs and leafy plants. “But it's close to the hospital. We're on the second floor.”

They took the steps with Tate jingling the keys nervously in her hand. “This is your room. Dad said we were right next door.” She looked down at the keys, studied the number. “Matthew, can I come in with you? I don't want to be by myself.” She shifted her gaze to his. “I know it's stupid, but—”

“It's okay. Come on.” He took the key from her, unlocked the door.

There was a bed with a spread of brightly colored orange and red flowers, a small dresser. The lamp's shade was askew. Marla had brought him a kit from the boat, and had left it neatly at the foot of the bed. Matthew switched on the lamp. Its glow was yellowed by the crooked shade. Rain beat against the window in angry fists.

“It's not much,” Tate murmured. Compelled, she reached out to straighten the lampshade, as if the little homemaker's gesture would make the room less sad.

“Not what you're used to, I guess.” Matthew strode into the adjoining bath and came out with a thin towel the size of a place mat. “Dry your hair.”

“Thanks. I know you need to sleep. I should probably leave you alone.”

He sat on the side of the bed, concentrated on removing his shoes. “You can sleep in here if you want. You don't have to worry about anything.”

“I wouldn't be worried.”

“You should.” On a sigh, he rose and, taking the towel, rubbed it briskly over her hair himself. “But you don't have to. Take off your shoes, and stretch out.”

“You'll lie down with me?”

He glanced over as she sat and fumbled tiredly with the laces of her sneakers. He knew he could have her—one touch, one word. He could lose himself and all of this misery in her. She would be soft, and willing, and sweet.

And he would hate himself.

Saying nothing, he turned down the spread. He stretched out on the sheet, held out a hand to her. Without hesitation, she lay down beside him, curled her body to his, pillowed her head on his shoulder.

There was one keen slice of need low in his gut. It mellowed to a dull ache as she settled her palm on his chest. He turned his face into her rain-scented hair and found a baffling mix of comfort and pain.

Safe, lulled by trust, she let her eyes close. “It's going to be all right. I know it's going to be all right. I love you, Matthew.”

She slipped into sleep as easily as a child. Matthew listened to the rain and waited for dawn.

 

The shark shot through the water, a sleek gray bullet armed with ready teeth and a lust for blood. The water was red and roiling, choking her as she struggled to escape. She was screaming, gasping for air she couldn't find. Those jaws opened, hideously wide. Then closed over her with a pain too excruciating to name.

She came awake with a scream locked in her throat. Curling into a ball, she fought her way out of the nightmare. She was in Matthew's room, she reminded herself. She was safe. He was safe.

And she was alone.

Lifting her head, she saw the murky sunlight just easing in the window. Panic came first that he had somehow gotten word that Buck had died, and had gone back to the hospital without her. Then she realized what she thought was rain was the shower.

The storm was over, and Matthew was here.

She let out a long breath, pushed at her disheveled hair. She could be grateful he hadn't been with her when she'd had the nightmare. He was already carrying so much weight, she thought. She wouldn't add to it. She would be brave and strong, and give him whatever support he needed.

When the bathroom door opened, Tate had a smile ready. Despite her worries, her heart did a quick tumble at the sight of him, damp from his shower, bare chested, his jeans carelessly unfastened.

“You're awake.” Matthew hooked his thumbs into his front pockets and tried not to think about how she looked sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees in the middle of the bed. “I thought you might sleep awhile longer.”

“No, I'm fine.” Suddenly awkward, she moistened her lips. “The rain stopped.”

“I noticed.” Just as he noticed how big and soft and aware her eyes had become. “I'm going to head back to the hospital.”

“We're going back to the hospital,” she corrected. “I'll go shower and change.” She was already climbing off the bed, picking up her key. “Mom said there was a coffee shop next door. I'll meet you there in ten minutes.”

“Tate.” He hesitated when she stopped at the door, turned back. What could he say? How could he say it? “Nothing. Ten minutes.”

They were back at the hospital in thirty. Both Ray and Marla rose from the bench outside of CCU, where they had taken up the watch.

They looked, Matthew thought, rumpled. It had always impressed him that no matter what the circumstances, the Beaumonts were so neatly groomed. Now, their clothes were wrinkled and limp. Ray's face was shadowed by a night's growth of beard. In all the weeks they'd worked together, he'd never seen Ray unshaven. For reasons Matthew couldn't pinpoint, he focused on that one small fact. Ray hadn't shaved.

“They won't tell us much,” Ray began. “Only that he had a restful night.”

“They let us go in for a few minutes every hour.” Marla took Matthew's hand, gave it a squeeze. “Did you get some rest, honey?”

“Yeah.” Matthew cleared his throat. She hadn't brushed her hair, he thought foolishly. Ray hadn't shaved, and Marla hadn't brushed her hair. “I want to tell both of you how much I appreciate—”

“Don't insult us.” Marla deliberately laced a scold into her voice. “Matthew Lassiter, you use that polite tone with that polite phrase on strangers when you feel obligated. Not with friends who love you.”

He'd never known anyone else who could shame and touch him at the same time. “What I meant was I'm glad you're here.”

“I think his color's better.” Ray put an arm around his wife, gave her a quick, warm hug. “Don't you, Marla?”

“Yes, I do. And the nurse said Doctor Farrge would be looking in on him shortly.”

“Matthew and I will take over now. I want the two of you to go get some breakfast, and a little more sleep.”

Ray studied his daughter's face, judged her fit, and nodded. “We'll do just that. You call the hotel if there's any change. Otherwise, we'll be back by noon.”

When they were alone, Tate took Matthew's hand. “Let's go see him.”

Maybe his color was better, Matthew thought a few moments later when he stood over his uncle's bed. Buck's face was still drawn, but that horrible gray wash had faded.

“His chances go up every hour,” Tate reminded him, and slipped her hand over Buck's. “He made it through surgery, Matthew, and he made it through the night.”

The dim glow of hope was more painful than despair. “He's tough. See that scar there.” With a fingertip, Matthew traced a jagged pucker along Buck's right forearm. “Barracuda. Yucatán. I was running the airlift, and Buck and the fish ran into each other in the fallout cloud. Went and got himself stitched up. Was back in the water within an hour. He's got a beaut on his hip where—”

“Matthew.” Tate's voice was shaky. “Matthew, he squeezed my hand.”

“What?”

“He squeezed my hand. Look. Look at his fingers.”

They flexed on Tate's, a slow curl. Matthew's skin went cold, then hot as he looked at his uncle's face. Buck's eyelids fluttered.

“I think he's coming around.”

A tear leaked out of the corner of Tate's eye as she gave Buck's hand an answering squeeze. “Talk to him, Matthew.”

“Buck.” With his heart skidding in his chest, Matthew leaned closer. “Goddamn it, Buck, I know you hear me. I'm not going to waste my time talking to myself.”

Buck's eyelids fluttered again. “Shit.”

“Shit.” Tate began to weep quietly. “Did you hear that, Matthew? He said ‘shit.' ”

“He would.” Matthew grabbed Buck's hand as his throat burned. “Come on, you candy ass. Wake up.”

“I'm 'wake, Jesus.” Buck opened his eyes, saw blurs. Shapes swam and shivered. He had the sensation of floating, found it not altogether unpleasant. His vision cleared
enough for him to make out Matthew's face. “What the hell. Thought I was dead.”

“That makes two of us.”

“He didn't get you, did he?” Buck's voice slurred as he struggled to get the words around his tongue. “That bastard didn't get you?”

“No.” Guilt crashed down on Matthew like cold, honed steel. “No, he didn't get me. It was a tiger, about a ten-footer,” he said, understanding that Buck would want to know. “We killed him, Tate and me. He's fish bait now.”

“Good.” Buck closed his eyes again. “Fucking hate sharks.”

“I'll go tell the nurse,” Tate said quietly.

“Fucking hate them,” Buck repeated. “Ugly bastards. Probably a rogue, but make sure we got bats and bangsticks.”

He opened his eyes again. Gradually the machines and the tubes came into focus. His brow puckered. “Not the boat.”

Matthew's heart began to thud in his throat. “No. You're in the hospital.”

“Hate hospitals. Goddamn doctors. Boy, you know I hate hospitals.”

“I know.” Matthew concentrated on soothing the panic he saw in Buck's eyes. He'd worry about his own reaction later. “Had to bring you in, Buck. The fish hurt you.”

“A couple of stitches . . .”

Matthew could see the instant Buck began to remember. “Take it easy, Buck. You've got to take it easy.”

“Got hold of me.” The sensations rushed back, one tumbled over another like nasty children in a street brawl. Fear, pain, horror and a skittering dread that triumphed over the rest.

He remembered the agony, the helplessness of being shaken and torn, choking on his own blood, blinded by it. That last clear memory of staring into those black, hate-filled eyes as they rolled up white with cold pleasure.

“Son of a bitch got hold of me.” Buck's voice jerked as he fought against Matthew to sit up. “How bad? How bad he get me, boy?”

“Calm down. You've got to calm down.” Struggling to keep his hands gentle, Matthew pinned Buck to the bed. It was pitifully easy. “If you act like this, they'll knock you out again.”

“Tell me.” Panic darting in his eyes, Buck took a fistful of Matthew's shirt. The grip was so weak, Matthew could have shaken it off with a shrug. But he didn't have the heart. “You tell me what that bastard did to me.”

Of all the things that had been between them, there had never been lies. Matthew covered Buck's hands with his, looked him square in the eyes.

“He took your leg, Buck. The fucker took your leg.”

“Y
OU
'
RE NOT GOING
to blame yourself."

Tate stopped her restless pacing to sit beside Matthew on the bench outside CCU. It had been a full day since Buck had regained consciousness. The better the outlook for his recovery, the deeper Matthew sank into depression.

“I don't see anyone else around here to blame.”

“Things sometimes happen that aren't anyone's fault. Matthew . . .” Patience, she warned herself. The snap of her temper wouldn't help him. “What happened was horrible, tragic. You couldn't stop it. You can't change it now. All you can do, all we can do, is see him through it.”

“He lost his goddamn leg, Tate. And every time he looks at me, we both know it should have been me.”

“Well, it wasn't you.” The thought that it could have been haunted her relentlessly. “And thinking it should have been is stupid.” Weary of reasoning, drained from the struggle to stay strong and supportive, she dragged a hand through her hair. “He's afraid now, and he's angry and depressed. But he isn't blaming you.”

“Isn't he?” Matthew looked up. Grief now warred with bitterness in his eyes.

“No, he's not. Because he isn't as shallow and self-important as you.” She sprang up from the bench. “I'm
going in to see him. You can sit here and wallow in self-pity by yourself.”

Head high, she sailed across the corridor and through the doors to Critical Care. The moment she was out of Matthew's sight, she stopped, took time to compose herself. After fixing on a sunny smile, she nudged Buck's curtain aside.

His eyes opened when she came in. Behind his thick lenses, his eyes were dull.

“Hey.” As if he'd greeted her with a wink and a wave, she marched over to kiss his cheek. “I hear they're moving you down to a regular room in a day or two. One with a TV and better-looking nurses.”

“Said they might.” He winced as pain in his phantom leg plagued him. “Thought you and the boy'd gone back to the boat.”

“No, Matthew's right outside. Do you want him?”

Buck shook his head. He began to pleat the sheet between his fingers. “Ray was in before.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Said there was some specialist in Chicago I'm supposed to go to once they let me out of here.”

“Yeah. He's supposed to be brilliant.”

“Not smart enough to put my leg back on.”

“They'll give you an even better one.” She knew her voice was overbright, but couldn't control it. “Did you ever see that show, Buck? The one with the bionic man. I loved it when I was a kid. You'll be Bionic Buck.”

The corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “Yeah, sure, that's me. Bionic Buck, king of the cripples.”

“I'm not going to stay if you talk that way.”

He shrugged a shoulder. He was too tired to argue. Almost too tired to feel sorry for himself. “Better if you didn't. You should get back to the boat. Got to get that booty up before somebody else does.”

“You shouldn't worry about that. We've got our claim.”

“You don't know nothing,” he snapped at her. “That's the trouble with amateurs. Word's out by now. It's out all right, after this especially. Shark attacks are always news, especially in tourist waters. They'll be coming.” His
fingers began to drum a quick tattoo on the mattress. “You locked up what we got already, didn't you? Someplace nice and tight?”

“I—” She hadn't given the treasure a thought in two days. Doubted anyone had. “Sure.” She had to swallow on the lie. “Sure, Buck, don't worry.”

“Got to go down, get the rest up quick. Did I tell Ray?” His eyes fluttered and he forced them open again. “Did I tell him? Fucking medication makes my head foggy. Got to get it up. All that gold. Like blood to sharks.” He laughed as his head lolled back on the pillow. “Like blood to sharks. Ain't that a kick in the ass? Got the treasure. Only cost me my goddamn leg. Get it up, lock it away, girl. You do that.”

“Okay, Buck.” Gently, she stroked his brow. “I'm going to take care of it. Rest now.”

“Don't go down alone.”

“No, of course not,” she murmured and slipped his glasses off.

“Angelique's Curse. She don't want anyone to win. Be careful.”

“I will. Just rest.”

When she was sure he was asleep, she went out quietly. Matthew was no longer on the bench, nor in the corridor. A check of her watch told her that her parents would be there in less than an hour.

She hesitated, then walked decisively to the elevators. She'd take care of things herself.

 

She felt at home the moment she stepped aboard the
Adventure.
Someone, her mother she imagined, had washed down the decks. There was no trace of blood, and the equipment was once again tidily stowed away.

Rather than try to remember what they had left aboard before Buck's accident, she ducked into the deckhouse for her notebook.

The moment she did, she knew something was wrong.

Everything was tidy. The cushions were plumped, the table gleaming. The galley beyond the living area was spotless. But there was no notebook on the table. There
were no artifacts carefully set there, or on the counter for cleaning and cataloguing.

After the first shiver of alarm had passed, she told herself her parents had probably done just what she had come to do. They had gathered up the booty and taken it to the hotel. Or out to the
Sea Devil.

The boat was more logical, she decided. They would keep it all together. Wouldn't they?

She looked back to shore, wondering if she should go and find them. But here, alone, Buck's urgency began to claw at her. She would go out to the
Sea Devil
and check for herself. It was a short trip, one she could easily handle alone.

Calmer now that she had a goal, she went to the bridge, weighed anchor. An hour, she thought. No more for a quick round-trip. Then she could reassure Buck that everything was taken care of.

As she cruised out to open sea, her tension dissolved. Life always seemed so simple with a deck under her feet. Overhead, gulls swooped and scolded, and the sea, the sheer blue stretch of it, beckoned. With the wind on her face and the wheel under her hands, she wondered if she would have found this fascinating world if she'd had different parents. Would the lure have been there if she had been raised conventionally, without tales of the sea and treasures as her bedtime stories?

Just then, with the sea shimmering around her, she was sure she would. Destiny, she thought, was a patient master. It waited.

She had found hers, earlier than some, she supposed. Already she could see her life with Matthew unfolding before her. Together they would sail the world, unlocking secrets from the sea's vault. Partners, she mused, in every way.

In time, he would come to learn that the value of what they did went beyond the flash of gold. They would build a museum, and bring the thrill and the pulse of history to hundreds of people.

One day they would have children, make a family, and she would write a book about their adventures. He'd come
to understand that there was nothing they couldn't do, nothing they couldn't be, with each other.

Like destiny, Tate would be patient.

She was smiling over her daydreams when she caught sight of the
Sea Devil.
The smile faded into puzzlement. Anchored off its port was a gleaming white yacht.

It was a stunner, a hundred feet of luxury and shine. She could see people on deck. A uniformed man carrying a tray of glasses, a woman sunbathing lazily, and apparently naked, a seaman polishing the brightwork on the foredeck. Glass that ribboned the deckhouse and bridge tossed back the sun.

Under different circumstances, she would have admired it, the lovely, somehow feminine lines, the celebration ripple of the brightly striped umbrellas and awnings, but the telltale murk on the surface of the water had already caught her eye.

Someone was below, running an airlift.

Almost shaking with fury, Tate cut her speed, maneuvered the
Adventure
to starboard of the
Sea Devil.
With quick efficiency, she moored her boat.

Now she could smell it, the unmistakable rotten-egg scent that was perfume to treasure hunters. The gases released from a wreck. Without hesitation, she darted from the bridge. Taking time only to pry off her sneakers, she dived over the side and swam to the
Sea Devil.

Shaking her wet hair out of her eyes, she hauled herself on deck. The tarps she and Matthew had used to cover the booty from the
Santa Marguerite
were in place. But it took only one swift glance to see that much of what they had recovered was missing.

It was the same in the cabin. The emerald cross, the bucket that had been filled with silver coins, the fragile porcelain, the pewter she and her mother had carefully cleaned. Gone. Teeth gritted, she looked back toward the yacht.

Armed with temper and a sense of righteousness, she dived back in the water. She was snarling by the time she climbed the ladder onto the glossy mahogany deck of the yacht.

A blonde, wearing sunglasses, a headset and a thong bottom lounged in a padded chaise.

Tate marched to her, rapped her sharply on the shoulder. “Who's in charge here?”

“Qu'est-que c'est?”
After a huge yawn, the blonde tipped down the oversized glasses and studied Tate over them with bored blue eyes.
“Qui le diable es-tu?”

“Who in hell are you?” Tate shot back in angry, fluent French. “And what do you think you're doing with my wreck?”

The blonde moved a creamy shoulder and slipped off her headphones. “American,” she decided in poor and irritated English. “You Americans are so tedious.
Allez.
Go away. You're dripping on me.”

“I'm going to do more than drip on you in a minute, Fifi.”

“Yvette.” With an amused cat smile, she took a long brown cigarette from the pack at her elbow and struck the flame on a slim, gold lighter. “Ah, what a noise.” She stretched, the movement as feline as her smile. “All the day and half the night.”

Tate set her teeth. The noise Yvette complained about was the compressor busily running the airlift. “We have a claim on the
Santa Marguerite,
and you have no right to work her.”

“Marguerite?
C'est qui, cette
Marguerite?” She blew out a fragrant stream of smoke. “I am the only woman here.” Lifting a brow, she scanned Tate from head to toe. “The only,” she repeated. Her gaze drifted beyond Tate, and warmed. “
Mon cher,
we have company.”

“So I see.”

Tate turned and saw a slim man in crisp buff-colored shirt and slacks, a tie of muted pastel stripes knotted handsomely at his neck. He wore a panama at a rakish angle over pewter-colored hair. Gold winked against his tanned skin at his wrist and neck. His face, as smooth as a boy's, glowed with health and good cheer. It was strikingly handsome with its long, narrow nose, neatly arched silver brows and thin, curved mouth. His eyes, a translucent blue, were bright with interest.

Tate's first impression was of money and manners. He smiled and offered a hand so charmingly that she nearly accepted before she remembered why she was there.

“Is this your boat?”

“Yes, indeed. Welcome aboard the
Triumphant.
It isn't often we have visits from water nymphs. André,” he called out, his voice cultured and vaguely European. “Bring a towel for the lady. She's quite wet.”

“I don't want a damn towel. I want you to get your divers up here. That's my wreck.”

“Really? How odd. Won't you sit down, Miss . . .”

“No, I won't sit down, you thieving pirate.”

He blinked, and his smile never wavered. “It seems you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm sure we can clear up this little misunderstanding in a civilized manner. Ah.” He took the towel from a uniformed steward. “We need champagne, André. Three glasses.”

“It's going to get real uncivilized,” Tate warned. “If you don't cut off that compressor.”

“It does make conversation difficult.” He nodded to his steward, then sat. “Please, do sit down.”

The longer he talked in that calm, lovely voice, smiled that easy, charming smile, the more she felt like a clumsy fool. As a sop to her dignity, she sat stiffly on a deck chair. She would, she determined, be cool, logical and as mannered as he.

“You've taken property off my boats,” Tate began.

He lifted a brow, turning his head so that he could study the
Sea Devil.
“That unfortunate thing is yours?”

“It belongs to my partners,” Tate muttered. Beside the
Triumphant,
the
Sea Devil
resembled a secondhand garbage scow. “A number of items are missing from the
Sea Devil
and the
Adventure.
And—”

“My dear girl.” He folded his hands, smiled benignly. A square-cut diamond the size of a Scrabble tile winked on his pinkie. “Do I look as though I need to steal?”

She said nothing as the steward uncorked a bottle of champagne with a rich, echoing pop. Her voice was as honeyed as the breeze. “Not everyone steals because they need to. Some people simply enjoy it.”

Now his eyes rounded with delight. “Astute, as well as attractive. Impressive attributes for one so young.”

Yvette mumbled something uncomplimentary in French, but he only chuckled and patted her hand. “
Ma belle,
do cover yourself. You're embarrassing our guest.”

While Yvette pouted and fastened a scrap of electric blue over her magnificent breasts, he offered Tate a flute of champagne. She had her hand around the stem before she realized she'd been maneuvered.

“Listen—”

“I'd be happy to,” he agreed. He sighed as the compressor fell silent. “Ah, that is better. Now, you were saying you're missing some property?”