The Reef (18 page)

“I understand that. I do.” Needing to clarify her own feelings, she leaned closer. “What we're doing here is important, Hayden. The way we're doing it is innovative and efficient. Over and above the fortune we're bringing up, there's knowledge, discovery, theory. We're making the
Justine,
and the people who died with her, real and vital again.”

“But?”

“That's where I stumble. Where will David's watch go, Hayden? And the dozens and dozens of other personal treasures people carried with them? We have no control over it, because no matter how important our work, we're employees. We're dots, Hayden, in some huge conglomerate. SeaSearch to Poseidon, Poseidon to Trident, and on.”

His lips curved. “Most of us spend our working lives as dots, Tate.”

“Are you content with that?”

“I suppose I am. I'm able to do the work I love, teach, lecture, publish. Without those conglomerates, with their slices of social conscience, or eye for a tax write-off, I'd never be able to take time for this kind of hands-on fieldwork and still eat on a semi-regular basis.”

It was true, of course. It made perfect sense. And yet . . . “But is it enough, Hayden? Should it be enough? How much are we missing by being up here? Not risking anything, or experiencing the hunt. Not having some claim or control over what we do, and what we discover? Aren't
we in danger of losing the passion that pulled us into this in the first place?”

“You aren't.” His heart began to accept what his head had told him all along. She would never be for him. She was an exotic flower to his simple, plodding drone. “You'll never lose it, because it's what defines you.”

In a symbolic farewell to a foolish dream, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“Hayden . . .”

He could read the concern, the regret and, painfully, the sympathy in her eyes. “Don't worry. Just a token of admiration from colleague to colleague. I have a suspicion we're not going to be working together much longer.”

“I haven't decided,” she said quickly.

“I think you have.”

“I have responsibilities here. And I owe you, Hayden, for recommending me for this position.”

“Your name was already on the list,” he corrected. “I merely agreed with the choice.”

“But I thought—” Her brow creased.

“You've earned a reputation, Tate.”

“I appreciate that, Hayden, but . . . Already on the list, you said? Whose list?”

“Trident's. The brass there was impressed with your record. Actually, I got the feeling there was some definite pressure to put you on, from one of the moneymen. Not that I wasn't happy to go along with the recommendation.”

“I see.” For reasons she couldn't name, her throat felt dry. “Who would that be, the moneyman?”

“Like you said, I'm just a dot.” He shrugged his shoulders as he rose. “Anyway, should you decide to resign before the expedition is finished, I'd be sorry to lose you, but it's your choice.”

“You're getting ahead of me.” It made her nervous to realize she'd been singled out somehow, but she smiled at Hayden. “But thanks.”

When he left her, she rubbed her hands over her mouth. Where had this spooky feeling come from? she wondered. Why hadn't she known about a list, or that her name had been on it?

Turning to her monitor, she clattered keys, eyes narrowed on the screen. Trident, Hayden had said. So she would by-pass Poseidon and SeaSearch for the moment. To find where the power was at any level, you looked for the money.

“Hey, friends and neighbors.” Bowers strolled in, gnawing on a chicken leg. “Lunch is up, in more ways than one.” He wiggled his brows at Tate and waited for her to chuckle.

“Give me a hand here, Bowers.”

“Sure, sweet thing. My hand is your hand.”

“Just work your magic on the computer. I want to find out who the big backers are in Trident.”

“Going to write thank-you notes?” Setting his lunch aside, he wiped his hands on his shirtfront and started in.

“Hmm . . . a lot of layers here,” he murmured after a moment. “Good thing I'm the best. You're hooked up to the main here, so the data we need's in there somewhere. Always is. You want board of directors, or what?”

“No,” she said slowly. “Forget that. Ownership of the
Nomad,
Bowers, under the corporation. Who owns the ship?”

“Ownership shouldn't be tough to find. Not with your friendly technology. SeaSearch owns it, baby. Hold on . . . donated. God, I love philanthropists. Some cat named VanDyke.”

Tate stared at the screen. “Silas VanDyke.”

“He's a big wheel and a big deal. You musta heard of him. Finances a lot of expeditions. We ought to give the man a big, sloppy kiss.” His grin faded when he looked down at Tate's face. “What's up?”

“I am.” She gritted her teeth against the fury. “That son of a bitch put me on here. That . . . Well, I'm taking myself off.”

“Off?” Baffled, Bowers stared at her. “Off what?”

“He thought he could use me.” Almost blind with temper, she stared at the artifacts carefully arranged on her worktable. David and Elizabeth's watch. “For this. The hell with him.”

 

Matthew hung up the phone, picked up his coffee. Another bridge burned, he thought. Or maybe, just maybe, the first couple of planks set in place on a new one.

He was sailing for Hatteras in the morning.

If nothing else, he mused, it would be a good test of the
Mermaid
's seaworthiness.

The boat was finished, painted, polished and named. He and LaRue had taken her out several times over the last few days on short runs. She sailed like a dream.

Matthew sat back now, pleasantly tired. Maybe he'd finally done something that would last.

Even the name had personal significance for him. He'd had the dream again, the one of Tate in the deep, dark sea. He didn't need Freud to explain it to him. He'd been in contact with Ray often over the last few weeks. Tate's name had come up, as had the
Isabella,
and memories of that summer.

Naturally, it had made him think, and look back, so the dream had come.

Tate might have been no more than a wistful memory, but the dream had been so immediate that he'd felt compelled to christen the boat for it. Or in a roundabout way, he supposed, for her.

He wondered if he would see her, doubted it. And letting himself slide into relaxation, told himself it didn't matter one way or the other.

The screen door whined open, slammed. LaRue came in with bags of takeout burgers and fries. “You made your phone call?” he asked.

“Yeah. I told Ray we'd start out in the morning.” Lifting his arms over his head, Matthew linked his fingers and stretched. “Weather looks good. Shouldn't take us more than three or four days at an easy clip. That'll give us a chance to shake her down.”

“I look forward to the meeting of him and his wife.” LaRue dug up paper plates. “He didn't tell you more about what he found?”

“He wants me to see it in person.” Suddenly ravenous, Matthew helped himself to a burger. “He's set on heading out for the West Indies by the middle of April. I told him that suited us.”

LaRue's gaze met Matthew's, and held. “The sooner the better.”

“You're crazy going back there.” Face haggard, Buck stepped in from the bedroom. “The place is cursed. The
Isabella
's cursed. Took your father, didn't it?” His gate slow, measured, he came forward. “Nearly took me. Should have.”

Matthew doused his fries with enough salt to make LaRue wince. “VanDyke took my father,” he said calmly. “A shark took your leg.”

“Angelique's Curse caused it.”

“Maybe it did.” Matthew chewed thoughtfully. “If it did, I figure I've got a claim on it.”

“That thing's bad luck to the Lassiters.”

“It's time I changed my luck.”

Unsteady, Buck braced a hand on the tiny linoleum-topped table. “Maybe you figure I only care what happens to you 'cause of what'll happen to me. That ain't the way it is. Your father expected I'd look after you. I did the best I could long as I could.”

“I haven't needed looking after for a long time.”

“Maybe not. And maybe I've been fucking up when it comes to you, when it comes to me the past few years. You're all I've got, Matthew. Truth is, you're all I ever gave most of a damn about.”

Buck's voice broke, causing Matthew to close his eyes and will away the worst edge of guilt. “I'm not spending the rest of my life paying for something I couldn't stop, or watching you finish the job the shark started.”

“I'm asking you to stay. I figure we could start a business. Take tourists out, fishermen, that kind of thing.” Buck swallowed hard. “I'd pull my weight this time around.”

“I can't do it.” Appetite gone, Matthew pushed his food aside and stood. “I'm going after the
Isabella.
Whether I find her or not, I'm picking up my life again. There are plenty of wrecks out there, and I'm damned if I'm going to spend the rest of my life salvaging metal or chauffeuring tourists instead of hunting gold.”

“There's nothing I can do to stop you.” Buck looked down at his trembling hands. “I didn't figure there was.”
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. “I'm going with you.”

“Look, Buck—”

“I haven't had one fucking drink in ten days.” Buck fisted his hands, forced them to relax again. “I'm dry. Maybe I'm a little rocky yet, but I'm dry.”

For the first time, Matthew looked at him. There were shadows under the eyes, but the eyes were clear. “You've gone ten days before, Buck.”

“Yeah. But not on my own. I got a stake in this, too, Matthew. Scares the hell out of me the thought of going back. But if you go, I go. Lassiters stick together,” he managed before his voice cracked again. “You want me to beg you not to leave me behind?”

“No. Christ.” He rubbed a hand over his face. There were a dozen logical, viable reasons to refuse. And only one to agree. Buck was family. “I can't baby-sit you, or worry about you sneaking a bottle. You have to work, earn your space on the boat.”

“I know what I gotta do.”

“LaRue”—Matthew turned to the man quietly eating his takeout dinner—“you've got a stake in this. Where do you stand?”

Politely, LaRue swallowed, dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “Me, I figure two more hands don't get in the way, long as they're steady.” He shrugged his shoulder. “If they shake, you can take him for ballast.”

Humiliated, Buck set his jaw. “I'll pull my weight. James wanted the
Isabella.
I'll help you get her for him.”

“All right.” Matthew nodded. “Pack your gear. We leave at first light.”

T
HE LITTLE PLANE
bounced on the runway and woke Tate out of a half doze. For the past thirty-eight hours she had been almost constantly on the move, juggling herself from boats to planes to cabs. She'd crossed a hefty slice of the Pacific, an entire continent, and all the varying time zones.

Her eyes told her it was day, but her body didn't have a clue.

At the moment, she felt as though she were made out of thin, fragile glass that would easily shatter at a loud noise or a careless bump.

But she was home. Or as close to home as the tiny airport in Frisco on Hatteras Island. All that was left was one quick car ride, and then, she vowed, she would avoid anything that moved for at least twenty-four hours.

Shifting carefully, she reached down for her carry-on. The tuna can with propellers she'd caught in Norfolk was empty but for her and the pilot. Once he'd taxied to a halt, he turned and gave her a thumbs-up sign, which she returned with a vague gesture and an even vaguer smile.

She knew she had a great deal to think over, but her mind simply wouldn't connect. Since she'd discovered the connection with VanDyke, she'd been in a tearing hurry to get home. Fate had played a hand. She'd been stuffing
her gear into bags when she'd received a call from her father, asking her to come as soon as she was able to break away from the expedition.

Well, she'd broken away, she thought. In record time.

Since then, she'd done nothing but work and travel, catching snatches of sleep in between. She hoped VanDyke had already been informed she was thousands of miles from her post. She hoped he knew she'd thumbed her nose at him.

With her briefcase in one hand, the carry-on slung over her shoulder, she negotiated the narrow steps to the tarmac. Her knees wobbled, and she was grateful for the shaded glasses that cut the glare of the brilliant sun.

She saw them almost immediately, waving cheerfully while she waited for the pilot to unload her suitcase from cargo.

How little they changed, she mused. Maybe there was a touch more gray threading through her father's hair, but they were both so straight and slim and handsome. Both of them were grinning like fools, holding hands while they waved manically.

Half of Tate's travel fatigue drained just looking at them.

But what in the hell have you gotten yourselves into? she wondered. Secrets that couldn't be shared over the phone. Plots and plans and adventures. That damned amulet, that damned wreck. The damned Lassiters.

It had been Ray's enthusiasm about the possibility of hooking up with the Lassiters again that had weighed the scales in favor of Tate's trip directly to Hatteras instead of to her own apartment in Charleston. She only hoped he'd listened to her and held off contacting Matthew. It was incomprehensible to her that any of them would want a repeat of that horrendous summer.

Well, she was here now, she told herself as she gripped the strap and rolled her suitcase behind her. And she would talk some sense into her wonderful, but naive, parents.

“Oh, honey. Honey, it's so good to see you.” Marla's arms came around her, gripped tight. “It's been so long. Nearly a year this time.”

“I know. I've missed you.” On a laugh, she let her carry-on drop so that she could pull her father into the embrace. “I've missed both of you. Oh, and you look terrific.” Tearing up, she pulled back to take a long, close-up look. “Really terrific. Mom, you've changed your hair. It's almost as short as mine used to be.”

“Do you like it?” Womanlike, Marla patted her sassily cropped do.

“It's great. Totally now.” And so youthfully flattering, Tate wondered how this pretty, smooth-faced woman could be her mother.

“I'm doing so much gardening now. It always seemed to be in the way. Honey, you're so thin. You've been working too hard.” Brow creased, she turned to her husband. “Ray, I told you she's been working too hard.”

“You told me,” he agreed and rolled his eyes. “Over and over. How was the trip, baby?”

“Endless.” She rolled her shoulders to loosen them as they walked through the small terminal to where Ray had parked his jeep. Stifling a yawn, she shook her head. “The bottom line is, I'm here.”

“We're glad you are.” Ray stowed the luggage in the back of the jeep. “We wanted you in on this trip, Tate, but I feel guilty knowing you resigned from your expedition. I know it was important to you.”

“Not as important as I thought.” She climbed into the back of the jeep, let her head fall back. She didn't want to bring up VanDyke, and his connection. Not yet at least. “I'm glad I was part of it. I really admire the people I was working with, and I'd be thrilled to work with any of them again. And the whole process was fascinating. But it was impersonal. By the time any of the artifacts got to me, they'd been through so many other hands, it was almost like taking something out of a display case to examine.” Wearily, she moved her shoulders. “You understand?”

“Yes.” Because Marla had warned him, Ray repressed his need to rattle away about his own plans. Give her a little time, Marla had insisted. Take it slow.

“You're home now,” Marla said. “The first thing you're going to do is have a good, hot meal and a nap.”

“No argument. Once my head clears, I want to hear all about this idea of yours to go after the
Isabella.
”

“When you've read through my research,” Ray said cheerfully as he turned toward the village of Buxton, “you'll see why I'm so eager to get started.” He opened his mouth to continue, noticed his wife's warning glance and subsided. “After you've rested a bit, we'll get it all together.”

“At least tell me what you found that started the ball rolling,” she began as he turned through a break in the pines and started up the sandy lane. “Oh, the azaleas are blooming.”

She was caught, leaning out the window to draw in the scent of pine and bay and blooms mixed with the aroma of water. It looked, as Tate remembered, like a fairy tale.

Marla had cleverly interspersed flowering shrubs among the trees, naturalized with spring and summer bulbs so that splashes and flows of color seemed gloriously wild and unplanned.

Near the two-story cedar house with its wide-screened porch, flower beds were only slightly more formal, with low-growing rock cress, sunny primroses and flowering sage giving way to nodding columbine and larkspur. Annuals and perennials thrived, while others waited for their season.

“You've started a rock garden,” Tate observed, craning her head when the jeep turned into a widened slot facing the sound.

“My new project. We've so much shade here I have to be very choosy. And you should see my herb bed around back by the kitchen.”

“Everything looks fabulous.” Tate stepped out of the jeep and looked at the house. “And it's so quiet,” she said softly. “Just the water, the birds, the breeze through the pines. I don't know how you ever leave it.”

“Whenever we come back from one of our little jaunts, we love it that much more.” Ray hefted her bags. “It'll
be a great place to retire.” He winked at his wife. “When we're ready to grow up.”

“That'll be the day.” More delighted than she'd imagined to be there, Tate started along the walking stones set into the gentle slope. “I suppose I'll be ready for knitting or bingo long before either of—” She halted at the back door. The colorful hammock she'd bought her father during a trip to Tahiti was stretched in its usual patch of sun. But it was occupied. “You have company?”

“No, not company. Old friends.” Marla opened the screen door. “They arrived just before dusk last night. We're loaded with weary travelers, aren't we, Ray?”

“Got a full house.”

Tate could see little more than a mop of dark hair that flopped over mirrored glasses, a hint of a tanned, muscular body. It was enough to have her stomach clench into several painful knots.

“What old friends?” she asked in a carefully neutral tone.

“Buck and Matthew Lassiter.” Marla was already in the kitchen, checking the clam chowder she'd had heating for lunch. “And their shipmate, LaRue. An interesting character, isn't he, Ray?”

“You bet.” Ray kept a bright smile on his face. He hadn't gotten around to mentioning to Marla their daughter's objection to the renewal of the old partnership. “You'll get a kick out of him, Tate. I'm just going to put your things in your room.” And escape.

“Where's Buck?” Tate asked her mother. Though she'd gone into the kitchen, she kept her eye on the hammock through the window.

“Oh, he's around somewhere.” She sampled the chowder, nodded. “He looks so much better than he did the last time we saw him.”

“Drinking?”

“No. Not a drop since he's been here. Sit down, honey. Let me fix you a bowl.”

“Not just yet.” Tate set her shoulders. “I think I'll go out and renew acquaintances.”

“That's nice. You tell Matthew his lunch is ready.”

“Right.” She intended to tell him a great deal more than that.

The sand and springy grass muffled her footsteps. Though she was certain she could have marched up with a brass band and he wouldn't have stirred. The sunlight slanted over him. Beautifully, she thought, infuriated.

He was beautiful. No amount of resentment and disdain could deny it. His hair was mussed and obviously hadn't seen a barber's care for some time. In sleep his face was relaxed, that gorgeous mouth soft. It was a bit bonier than it had been eight years ago, she supposed, deepening the hollows of his cheeks. And that only added to the instant, sexual punch. His body was trim, muscled, and looked hard as granite with its covering of ripped jeans and faded T-shirt.

She let herself take a good long look, scrupulously monitoring her own reaction as she would monitor any lab experiment. An initial jump of the pulse, maybe, she judged. But that was only natural when a woman came across a stunning animal.

She was grateful to report that after that one visceral jolt, she felt nothing but annoyance, resentment and good, old-fashioned anger at finding him napping on her turf.

“Lassiter, you bastard.”

He didn't stir; his chest continued to rise and fall rhythmically. With a grim smile, she planted her feet, took a good hold on the edge of the hammock. Putting her back into it, she heaved.

Matthew came awake halfway through the roll. He had a quick glimpse of the ground rushing up, threw his hands out instinctively to catch himself. He grunted when he hit, swore when a prickly needle of a thistle jabbed his thumb. Groggy and disoriented, he shook his head. Tossing his hair back, he shifted until he was sitting on the ground.

The first thing he saw were small, narrow feet encased in practical and well-worn walking boots. Then there were the legs. A lot of them. Long, feminine and wonderfully shaped in snug black leggings. Under different circumstances, he could have passed a great deal of time happily studying them.

Shifting his gaze a bit higher, he encountered a black shirt, mannish with its tail sweeping hips that were definitely not a man's. Lovely breasts, high, adding a nice curve to the shirt.

Then the face.

The juices the body had stirred went directly to simmer.

She'd changed, unfairly, he thought. Gorgeously. Mouthwateringly. While she'd been fresh, lovely and sweet at twenty, the woman she'd become was heart-stopping.

Her skin was ivory, almost transparently pure with just a blush of rose. Her unpainted mouth was full, luscious, and set in a bad-tempered pout that had his own mouth going bone-dry. She'd let her hair grow, and it was swept back now in a no-nonsense ponytail that left that face unframed. Behind her shaded lenses, her eyes were hot with anger.

Realizing he was on the edge of gawking, Matthew unfolded himself. In defense, he tilted his head and offered a quick, careless smile.

“Hey, Red. Long time.”

“What the hell are you doing here, getting my parents tangled up in some ridiculous scheme?”

In a negligent move, he leaned on a tree. His knees were water. “Nice to see you, too,” he said dryly. “And you've got it backwards. Ray's got the scheme. I'm going along for the ride.”

“Taking him for a ride more likely.” Disgust fountained up. It wasn't possible to swallow all of it. “The partnership was dissolved eight years ago, and it's going to stay that way. I want you to go back to whatever hole you climbed out of.”

“You running things around here now, Red?”

“I'll do whatever I have to to protect my parents from you.”

“I never did anything to Ray or Marla.” He lifted a brow. “Or to you, for that matter. Though in that area I had plenty of opportunity.”

Her cheeks heated. She hated him for it, hated those damned glasses that hid his eyes and tossed her own
reflection back at her. “I'm not a young girl with stars in her eyes now, Lassiter. I know exactly what you are. An opportunist with no sense of loyalty or responsibility. We don't need you.”

“Ray thinks differently.”

“He's softhearted.” She angled her chin. “I'm not. Maybe you've conned him into putting his money into some wild plan, but I'm here to put a stop to it. You're not going to use him.”

“Is that how you see it? I'm using him?”

“You're a born user.” She said it mildly, pleased with her control. “And when things get rough, you walk. Like you walked on Buck, leaving him in some hole-in-the-wall trailer park in Florida while you sailed off. I was there.” All but shimmering with resentment, she stepped closer. “Almost a year ago, I went to see him. I saw that sty you dropped him in. He was all alone, sick. There was barely any food. He said he couldn't remember the last time you'd been there, that you were off diving somewhere.”

“That's true enough.” He'd have sawed off his tongue with his own pride before he would have told her differently.