The Reef

afford to set her free.
    He would certainly kill her.
    Somewhere in the open sea, she imagined, coolly logical. A blow to the head most likely, then he would dump her, dead or unconscious, into the water. The fish would do the rest.
    In all those miles, in all that space, no one would ever find a trace of her.
    He assumed it would be simple, she thought, and closed her eyes. What could one unarmed woman do to defend herself? Well, he would be surprised what this woman could do. He might kill her, but it wouldn’t be simple.
    Her head jerked up as the lock on her door clicked. The steward opened it, his shoulders filling the doorway.
    “He wants you.”
    It was the first time he’d spoken in her hearing. Tate detected the Slavic song in the brusque tone.
    “Are you Russian?” she asked. She rose but didn’t come toward him.
    “You will come now.”
    “I worked with a biologist a few years ago. She was from Leningrad. Natalia Minonova. She always spoke fondly of Russia.”
    Nothing flickered on his wide, stony face. “He wants you,” the steward repeated.
    She shrugged, slipping her hand in her pocket, closing her fingers over the pen. “I’ve never understood people who take orders blindly. Not much of a self-starter, are you, Igor?”
    Saying nothing, he crossed to her. When his beefy hand closed over her arm, she let herself go limp. “Doesn’t it matter to you that he’s going to kill me?” It was easy to put the fear back into her voice as he dragged her across the room. “Will you do it for him? Snap my neck or crush my skull? Please.” She stumbled, turned into him. “Please, help me.”
    As he shifted his grip, she pulled the pen out of her pocket. It was a blur of movement, the slim gold dart plunging, his hand shooting up.
    She felt the sickening give as her weapon sank into flesh, and the warm wetness on her hand before she was hurled against the wall.
    Her stomach roiled as she watched him stoically yank the pen from his cheek. The puncture was small but deep, and blood ran. Her only regret was that she’d missed the eye.
    Without a word he clamped her arm and dragged her out on deck.
    VanDyke was waiting. It was brandy this time. Glass-shielded candles glowed prettily on a table beside a bowl of dewy fruit and a fluted plate offering delicate pastries.
    He had changed into formal evening attire to suit the celebration he planned. Beethoven’s Pathétique flowed subtly from the outdoor speakers.
    “I had hoped you might avail yourself of the wardrobe in your stateroom. My last guest left rather hurriedly this morning and neglected to pack all of her belongings.” His brow lifted when he saw his steward’s bloody cheek.
    “Go to the infirmary and have that dealt with,” he said impatiently. “Then come back. You never cease to surprise me, Tate. What did you use?”
    “A Mont Blanc. I wish it had been you.”
    He chuckled. “Let me give you a logical choice, my dear. You can be restrained or drugged, both of which are distasteful. Or you can cooperate.” He saw her glance involuntarily toward the rail and shook his head. “Jumping overboard would hardly be productive. You have no gear. One of my men would be in the water in moments to bring you back. You wouldn’t make it fifty yards. Why don’t you sit?”
    Until she could formulate a better plan, she saw no point in defying him. If he drugged her, she’d be lost.
    “Where did you find LaRue?”
    “Oh, it’s amazingly easy to find tools when you can pay for them.” He paused a moment to choose the perfect glossy grape.
    “A study of Matthew’s shipmates showed LaRue to be a likely candidate. He’s a man who enjoys money and the transient pleasures it buys. To date, he’s been a good if occasionally expensive investment.”
    He paused, eyes half closed in pleasant relaxation, and swirled his brandy.
    “He kept close tabs on Matthew aboard ship, was able to develop a friendship with him. Through LaRue’s reports I was able to determine that Matthew continued to keep contact with your parents, and that he never quite gave up the idea of finding Angelique’s Curse. He knew where it was, of course, always, but he’d never tell LaRue where. Even friendship has its limits. He’d boast of it, but never drop his guard enough to tell the tale.”
    VanDyke chose a second dark purple grape from the bowl. “I do admire that. His tenacity and his caution. I wouldn’t have thought it of him, holding onto the secret all