The Reef

Miss Beaumont, treasure-hunting is a dangerous business. Accidents happen. I can make one thing very clear for all of us, however. If the amulet is on the Marguerite, it’s mine. As is anything else she holds.” The light in his eyes was brighter now, chillingly gracious. “And I always take, and treasure, what’s mine. Isn’t that true, ma belle? ”
    Yvette ran a hand down one gleaming thigh. “Always true.”
    “You don’t have it yet, do you?” Tate walked to the rail. “And we’ll see who holds the rights to the Santa Marguerite. ”
    “I’m sure we will.” VanDyke turned the empty flute in his hands. “Oh, and Miss Beaumont, be sure to give the Lassiters my regards, and my regrets.”
    Tate heard him chuckling as she dived into the water.
    “Silas.” Yvette lighted another cigarette and snuggled down in her chaise. “What was that annoying American babbling about?”
    “Did you find her annoying?” With a pleased smile, Silas watched Tate swim strongly back to the Adventure. “I didn’t. I found her fascinating—young, foolishly boldand rather sweetly naive. In my circles, I rarely come across such qualities.”
    “So.” Yvette blew out smoke, sulked. “You think she’s attractive with her skinny body and hair like a boy.”
    Because his mood was mellow, VanDyke sat on the edge of the chaise and prepared to placate. “Hardly more than a child. It’s women who interest me.” He touched his lips to Yvette’s pouty ones. “You who fascinate me,” he murmured, reaching behind to tug loose the knot of her brief top. “That’s why you’re here, ma chère amie. ”
    And would be, he thought as he cupped one of her perfect breasts in his hand. Until she began to bore him.
    Leaving Yvette’s feathers smoothed, VanDyke rose. With a smile, he watched Tate pilot the Adventure toward St. Kitts.
    There was something to be said for youth, he thought. It was something even his money, and his business skills couldn’t buy. He had a feeling it would take a long, long time for someone as fresh as Tate Beaumont to grow tedious.
    He strolled forward, a hum on his lips. There, his divers had spread the latest haul over a tarp. His heart began to sing. What was there, corroded, calcified or gleaming, was his. Success. Profit for investment. It was only more thrilling that it had belonged to the Lassiters.
    No one spoke as VanDyke knelt and began to pick through the booty with his jeweled and manicured fingers. It was so satisfying for him to know that he had brought up treasure while the brother of James Lassiter had been fighting for his life.
    It only enhanced the legend, didn’t it? he mused as he lifted a cob coin, turned it in his hand. Angelique’s Curse would strike them down, strike all down who searched for it. But him.
    Because he’d been willing to wait, to bide his time, to use his resources. Time and again, his business sense had told him to forget it, to cut his losses, which had been considerable to date. Yet the amulet remained, always in the back of his mind.
    If he didn’t find it, own it, he would have failed. Failurewas simply unacceptable. Even in a hobby. He could justify the time and the money. He had more than enough of both. And he hadn’t forgotten that James Lassiter had laughed at him, had tried to outwit him on a deal.
    If Angelique’s Curse haunted him, there was a reason for it. It belonged to him.
    He glanced up. His divers waited. The crew looked on in silence, ready to obey any order. Such things, VanDyke thought with contentment, money could buy.
    “Continue the excavation.” He rose, brushed fussily at the knees of his sharply creased slacks. “I want armed guards, five on deck, five at the wreck. Deal discreetly, but firmly, with any interference.” Satisfied, he flicked a glance out to sea. “Don’t harm the girl should she return. She interests me. Piper.” With a crook of his finger, he gestured to his marine archeologist.
    VanDyke moved briskly through the forward doors and into his office, with Piper on his heels like a loyal hound.
    Like the rest of the yacht, VanDyke’s floating office was stylish and efficient. The walls were paneled in glossy rosewood, the floor gleamed with its polish of hot wax. The desk, securely anchored, was a nineteenth-century antique that had once graced the home of a British lord.
    Rather than typical seafaring decor, he preferred the feel of a manor house, complete with a Gainsborough and heavy brocade drapes.