The Reef

realize that the fates had put her in his path as a sign, a symbol. And he had kept her there, patiently waiting for the moment to come.
    With her, he would have succeeded. He was sure of it.
    But she had betrayed him. Left her post.
    Betrayed him.
    His teeth clenched and sweat popped out hot on his skin. Fury hazed his vision, overtook him so that he hurled the crystal over the seawall, heaved the table so that china and silver and luscious fruit smashed and splattered onto the patio.
    Payment, there would be payment. Desertion was a highly punishable offense. A killing offense. His nails dug red welts into his palms. She would have to pay for that, and more, for the bad taste of aligning herself once more with his enemies.
    They thought they’d outwitted him, VanDyke raged as he stalked the patio, yanked a creamy hibiscus from the bush beside him. Their mistake, of course. Tate’s mistake.
    She owed him loyalty, and he would have it. He demanded it. A feral grin on his lips, he ripped the delicate blossom. Then he ripped off more, still more, until the bush and his beautiful suit were in tatters.
    Panting, his head swimming with the volcanic fury inside him, he yanked himself back. As his vision cleared, he saw the shattered remains of his elegant lunch, the ruin of his possessions. His head ached abominably, and his hands were raw.
    He couldn’t quite remember causing the destruction, only the black cloud that had smothered him.
    For how long? he wondered in jittering panic. For how long had he been lost?
    He looked desperately at his watch, winking gold on his wrist, but he couldn’t remember when the mood had taken him away.
    It didn’t matter, he soothed himself. The servants would say nothing, would think nothing but what he ordered them to think. In any case, he hadn’t caused this nasty destruction of food and china.
    It was they who had caused the destruction, he reminded himself. The Lassiters. The Beaumonts. He’d simply reacted, perhaps a bit rashly, to his keen disappointment. But he’d cleared his mind again. As he always did. As he always would.
    Now that he was calm, he would think, and he would plan. He’d give them time, he decided. He’d give them room. Then, he’d destroy them. This time, he would destroy them utterly for causing him to lose his dignity.
    He would have control, VanDyke told himself, breathing slow and deep. His father had not been able to control his mother. His mother had been unable to control herself.
    But he had learned strength and will.
    It was slipping now, and he feared that the way a child fears the monsters in the closet. There were monsters, he remembered, and had to force himself to stop his eyes from darting in search of them. The monsters in the dark, the monsters in the doubt. In failure.
    He was losing the control over self that he had fought so hard to develop.
    Angelique’s Curse. He knew now, was sure now, that the amulet was the answer. With it, he would be strong, fearless, powerful. He believed the witch had put her soul into it. Oh yes, he believed that now, and wondered why he had ever doubted it, ever considered it simply a valuable, much-desired trinket.
    It was his destiny, of course. He laughed a little, taking a linen handkerchief from his pocket with a trembling hand to wipe his face. His destiny, and perhaps his salvation. Without it, he would taste failure, and more. Hemight find himself trapped in that black, numbing world of slathering rage without a key.
    The amulet was the key. Gently now, he plucked another blossom, stroked it delicately to prove he could.
    Angelique had put her soul into metal and stone. She had haunted him for years, taunted him, teased him by letting him get just so close and no further.
    Well, he would beat her, as his long-dead ancestor had beaten her. He would win because he was a man who knew how to win.
    And as for Tate . . . He crushed the flower in his hand, letting his neatly manicured nails rip through the dewy petals.
    She’d made her choice.
     
    The West Indies. Tropical islands lush with flowers and palms, towering with cliffs. White sand glittering in the sun and kissed by gilded blue water. Fragrant breezes swaying majestic palms. It was everyone’s image of paradise.
    As Tate stepped on deck just after sunrise, she was no exception. The cone of Nevis’s sleeping volcano was shrouded in mists. The gardens and cabanas of the resort that had been built since her last visit seemed to sleep as