The Reef

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