The Reef

swatch of cotton under them.
    His mermaid, he thought, almost dizzy with discovery. So slim and white and beautiful.
    “Matthew.” She dragged his shirt over his head, desperate for flesh to find flesh. “Touch me. I need you to touch me.”
    With those words humming in his head, he lowered her to the bed and quietly, cleverly, pleasured them both.
    Tenderness was so unexpected. So seductive. She had seen it once, hidden in the brash young man she had fallen in love with. But to find it now, after so long, was a treasure. His hands brushed and stroked and aroused while his mouth patiently swallowed her sighs.
    Her own exploring fingers found muscle and scar, skin that heated under her curious caress. She tasted it, letting her lips and tongue skim over that flesh and savor the flavor of man and sea.
    So she went dreaming, floating on a sea of shifting passions, thrilling to his murmurs of pleasure as he traveled over her. She arched to meet him, shuddering with delight when his mouth closed over her breast. So hot, so firm, so exquisitely controlled. All the while his hands moved steadily over her, sending tiny, eager pulses soaring.
    When her sea began to toss, he soothed her back from the edge, teased her up again to the narrow verge until her breath came in gasps and she would have begged had she had the power. Storms brewed inside her so that the air was hot and heavy and throbbed with the threat.
    He watched her, fascinated by the rapid flickers of pleasure, confusion and finally desperation on her face. His own mind was reeling when he sent her up and flying.His groan merged with hers as he felt her body tighten and shudder into wild release.
    Fighting against a vicious slap of need, he closed his mouth over hers. When her breath began to settle, he nudged her gently, devastatingly over the edge again, into the tempest.
    She couldn’t stop the shudders. It seemed her body would break apart. So she clung to him as wave after wave of sensation battered her. She had ridden out a hurricane in the Indian Ocean, crawled through a blinding sandstorm thirty feet beneath the sea. She had felt the heat and need of a man’s body meshed mindlessly with hers.
    But nothing had touched her, stirred her blood or enticed her mind like this long, relentless loving. She had no secrets left to hide, no pride under which she might have buried them. Whatever she was, whatever he wanted from her, was there for him. Weak and wrecked and willing, she offered.
    He slipped inside her slowly, savoring. Now he trembled as she did, resting his brow on hers as she took him deep, held him fast.
    “Tate.” Emotions erupted inside him. “Just this,” he whispered. “Just you.”
    His hands sought hers, fingers locking. He rocked inside her, struggling to keep the pace easy, to draw out the moment. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, the blood that pounded, the deliriously soft, wet give of her.
    Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body bucked and jerked. A sob tore from her throat and ended on his name.
    Finally, when he was so steeped in her he’d lost himself, he dived.
     
    While the sun lowered in the West Indian sky, VanDyke sipped Napoleon brandy thousands of miles away. He had the latest report on the activities of the Beaumont-Lassiter expedition on his desk.
    It far from satisfied him.
    From all appearances, they were still exploring the remains of the Marguerite. None of his contacts on St. Kittsor Nevis knew anything of importance. A busman’s holiday, the report indicated, but VanDyke wasn’t convinced.
    His instincts were humming.
    Perhaps it was time he followed them, he considered. A little trip to the West Indies might be in order. It would at least provide him with the opportunity to express his displeasure to Tate Beaumont.
    And, if the Lassiters weren’t going to lead him to Angelique’s Curse after all these years, it was time he disposed of them.

PART THREE
FUTURE
    The future is purchased by the present.
    — Samuel Johnson

C HAPTER 20
    T ATE WONDERED IF it would be awkward. In her experience, mornings after routinely were. She’d been grateful to find herself alone when she’d awakened. It gave her the opportunity to shower and think.
    They’d done very little talking the night before, she remembered. Then again, it was hard to hold a reasonable conversation while your brain was being fried with hot, demanding sex.
    She let out a breath as she shrugged into the thick bathrobe the hotel