by Nora Roberts
“Me, I prefer a good Beaujolais,” LaRue commented. “At room temperature.” He heard the screen door open and marked his place in his Faulkner novel. The evening show was about to begin.
“You been stealing my whiskey, you fucking Canuk?”
As LaRue’s tooth gleamed in a snarl, Matthew stepped in. “There isn’t any whiskey. I got rid of it.”
Hampered more by his morning’s drinking than by his prosthesis, Buck turned on him. “You got no right to take my bottle.”
Who was this man, Matthew thought, this stranger? If Buck was somewhere in that bloated, unshaven face, in those red-rimmed, bleary eyes, he could no longer see him. “Right or not,” he said calmly, “I got rid of it. Try the coffee.”
In response, Buck grabbed the pot from the stove and hurled it against the wall.
“So don’t try the coffee.” Because he was tempted to ball them into fists, Matthew tucked his hands into his pockets. “You want to drink, you’re going to have to do it somewhere else. I’m not going to watch you kill yourself.”
“What I do’s my business,” Buck muttered, crunching over broken glass and slopped coffee.
“Not while I’m around.”
“You’re never around, are you?” Buck nearly skidded on the wet tile, righted himself. His face went pink with humiliation. Every step he took was a reminder. “You blow in here when you please, and blow out the same way. You got no business, boy, telling me what to do in my own house.”
“It’s my house,” Matthew said softly. “You’re just dying in it.”
He could have dodged the blow. He took Buck’s fist on his jaw philosophically. In some perverse part of his brain, he was pleased to note that his uncle could still pack a punch.
While Buck stared at him, Matthew wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m going out,” he said and left.
“Go away, walk away.” Buck shambled to the door to shout after him over the drumming rain. “Walking away’s what you’re best at. Why don’t you keep walking? Nobody here needs you. Nobody needs you.”
LaRue waited until Buck lumbered back toward the bedroom, then rose to turn down the heat on his stew. He took his jacket, and Matthew’s, and slipped out of the trailer.
They had only been in Florida three days, but LaRue knew just where Matthew would go. Adjusting the brim of his cap so that the rain sluiced off in front of his face, he made his way down to the marina.
It was nearly deserted, and the lock was off the door of the concrete garage that Matthew rented by the month. He found Matthew inside, sitting in the bow of a nearly finished boat.
It was a double hull, almost as wide as it was long. LaRue’s first glimpse of it after they’d arrived had impressed him. It was a pretty thing, not dainty by any means, but sturdy and tough. The way LaRue preferred his boats, and his women.
Matthew had designed the deck section to lie across the top of the hulls so that it would stay clear in rough seas. Each bow had an inward curve that would create a cushioning effect and lead to not only a smoother ride, but a faster one. There was plenty of storage area and seating. But the genius of the design in LaRue’s opinion was the sixty square feet of open deck forward.
Treasure room, LaRue thought.
All it lacked were the finishing touches. The paint and brightwork, the bridge equipment, navigational devices. And, LaRue thought, a suitable name.
He climbed up, impressed again by the sharp, cutting look of the bows. It would take the water, he mused. It would fly.
“So, when you finish this thing, eh?”
“I’ve got the time now, don’t I?” Matthew envisioned the rails. Brass and teak. “All I need’s the money.”
“Me, I got plenty of money.” Thoughtfully, LaRue took out a leather pouch and began the slow and, to him, pleasurable process of rolling a cigarette. “What do I spend it on but women? And they don’t cost so much as most men think. So maybe I give you the money to finish it, and you give me part of the boat.”
Matthew let out a sour laugh. “What part do you want?”
LaRue leaned into the backrest, carefully sealing the cigarette paper around the tobacco. “A boat a man builds is a good place to come when he wants to brood. Tell me this, Matthew, why did you let him hit you?”
“Why not?”
“Seems to me he’d be better if you hit him.”
“Right. That would be great. It would do a lot of good for me to knock down a—”
“Cripple?” LaRue finished mildly. “No, you never let him forget he’s not what he was.”
Furious, surprised into hurt, Matthew lunged to his feet. “Where the hell do you come off saying that? What the hell do you know about it? I’ve done everything I can for him.”
“You’ve done.” LaRue struck a match, let it flare on the edge of the neatly rolled cigarette. “You pay for the roof over his head, the food in his belly, the whiskey he kills himself with. All it costs him is his pride.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do, toss him out into the street?”
LaRue shrugged. “You don’t ask him to be a man, so he’s not a man.”
“Butt out.”
“I think you like your guilt, Matthew. It keeps you from doing what you want, and maybe failing at it.” He only grinned when Matthew hauled him up by the shirtfront. “See, me, you treat like a man.” He cocked up his chin, not entirely sure it wouldn’t be broken in the next ten seconds. “You can hit me. I’ll hit you back. When we’re finished, we’ll make a deal for the boat.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” In disgust, Matthew shoved him back. “I don’t need company, I don’t need another partner.”
“You do, yes. And I like you, Matthew.” LaRue sat again, neatly tapping the ash from his cigarette into his palm. “And I figure this. You’re going to go back for that ship you once told me about. Maybe you’ll go after this VanDyke you hate so much. Maybe you’ll even go back for the woman you want. I’m going, because I don’t mind being rich. I like to see a good fight, and me, I have a soft spot for romance.”
“You’re an asshole, LaRue. Christ knows why I ever told you about that shit.” He lifted his hands and rubbed them over his face. “I must have been drunk.”
“No, you never let yourself get drunk. You were talking to yourself, mon ami. I was just there.”
“Maybe I’ll go back for the wreck. And maybe, if I get lucky, I’ll cross paths with VanDyke again. But there’s no woman anymore.”
“There’s always a woman. If not one, another.” LaRue shrugged his bony shoulders. “Me, I don’t understand why men lose their minds over a woman. One leaves, another comes along. But an enemy, that’s worth working for. And money, well, it’s easier to be rich than poor. So we finish your boat, eh, and go looking for fortune and revenge.”
Wary, Matthew eyed LaRue. “The equipment I want isn’t cheap.”
“Nothing worthwhile is cheap.”
“We may never find the wreck. Even if we do, mining her is going to be hard, dangerous work.”
“Danger is what makes life interesting. You’ve forgotten that, Matthew.”
“Maybe,” he murmured. He began to feel something stir again. It was the blood he’d let settle and cool over the years. He held out a hand. “We finish the boat.”
It was three days later when Buck made his way into the garage. He’d gotten a bottle somewhere, Matthew deduced. The sour stench of whiskey surrounded him.
“Where the hell you think you’re going to take this tub?”
Matthew continued to lovingly sand the teak for the rail. “Hatteras to start. I’m hooking up with the Beaumonts.”
“Shit, amateurs.” A little rocky on his feet, Buck walked to the stern. “What the hell did you build a catamaran for?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“Single hull’s always been good enough for me. Good enough for your father, too.”
“It’s not your boat. It’s not his boat. It’s m
ine.”
That stung. “What kind of color is this you’re painting her. Damn sissy blue.”
“Caribbean blue,” Matthew corrected. “I like it.”
“Probably sink the first time you hit weather.” Buck sniffed and stopped himself from caressing one of the hulls. “I guess all you and Ray are good for now is pleasure sailing.”
Experimentally, Matthew ran the pad of his thumb over the teak. It was satin smooth. “We’re going after the Isabella.”
Silence sparked like naked wires crossed. Matthew hefted the sanded rail over his shoulder and turned. Buck had a hand on the boat now, braced as he swayed like a man already at sea.
“The hell you are.”
“Ray’s decided to go. He found something he wants to show me. As soon as I can get things done here, I’m heading up. Regardless of what Ray’s come up with, I’m going after her. It’s long past time I did.”
“Are you out of your mind, boy? Do you know what she cost us? Cost me?”
Matthew set the rail aside for varnishing. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“You had a treasure, didn’t you? You let her go. You let that bastard VanDyke dance off with it. You lost it for me when I was half dead. Now you think you’re going back and leaving me here to rot?”
“I’m going. What you do is your business.”
Panicked, Buck slammed the heel of his hand into Matthew’s chest. “Who’s going to see to what I need here? You go off like this, the money’ll be gone in a month. You owe me, boy. I saved your worthless life. I lost my leg for you. I lost everything for you.”
The guilt still came, waves of it a strong man could drown in. But this time, Matthew shook his head. He wasn’t going under again. “I’m finished owing you, Buck. Eight years I’ve worked my ass off so you could drink yourself into a coma and make me pay for every breath I took. I’m done. I’m going after something I’d convinced myself I couldn’t have. And I’m going to get her.”
“They’ll kill you. The Isabella and Angelique’s Curse. And if they don’t, VanDyke will. Then where will I be?”
“Just where you are now. Standing on two legs. One of them I paid for.”
He didn’t take the punch this time. Instead he caught Buck’s fist in his hand an inch before it struck his face. Without thinking he shoved back so that Buck stumbled into the stern of the boat.
“Try that again, and I’ll take you down, old man or not.” Matthew planted his feet, prepared to face-off if Buck lunged again. “In ten days, I’m leaving for Hatteras with LaRue. You can pull yourself together, or you can go fuck yourself. It’s your choice. Now get the hell out. I’ve got work to do.”
With a shaking hand, Buck wiped his mouth. His phantom leg began to throb, a nasty, grinning ghost that never quite gave up the haunting. Sick at heart, he hurried off to find a bottle.
Alone, Matthew hefted another section of rail and went to work like a man possessed.
CHAPTER 13
A S FAR AS Silas VanDyke was concerned, Manzanillo was the only place to spend the first breaths of spring. His cliff house on the western Mexican coast afforded him the most spectacular view of the restless Pacific. There was nothing more relaxing than standing by his wall of windows and watching the waves crash and spew.
Power never failed to fascinate him.
As an Aquarian, he considered water his element. He loved the sight of it, the smell of it, the sound of it. Though he traveled extensively for both business and pleasure, he could never be away from his element for long.
All of his homes had been bought or built near some body of water. His villa in Capri, his plantation in Fiji, his bungalow on Martinique. Even his brownstone in New York afforded him a view of the Hudson. But he had a particular fondness for his hideaway in Mexico.
Not that this particular trip was one of leisure. VanDyke’s work ethic was as disciplined as the rest of him. Rewards were earned—and he had earned his. He believed in labor, the exercise of the body as well as the mind. It was true that he had inherited a great deal of his wealth, but he had not whiled away his time or whittled away his resources. No, he had built on them doggedly and shrewdly until he had easily tripled the legacy passed to him.
He considered himself discreet and dignified. No publicity-seeking Trump, VanDyke pursued his personal and business affairs quietly and with a subtle flare that kept his name out of the press and tabloid news.
Unless he put them there. Publicity, of the proper type, could shade a business deal and tip the scales when necessary.
He had never married, though he admired women greatly. Marriage was a contract, and the negating of that contract was too often messy, too often public. Heirs were often a result of that contract, and heirs could be used against a man.
Instead, he chose his companions with care, treated them with the same respect and courtesy as he would treat any employee. And when a woman ceased to entertain him, she was generously dispatched.
Few complained.
The little Italian socialite he had recently grown weary of had been a bit of a problem. The icy diamonds he’d offered as a parting gift hadn’t cooled her hot temper. She’d actually threatened him. With some regret, he’d arranged for her to be taught a lesson. But he’d given strict orders that there were to be no visible scars.
After all, she’d had a lovely face and body that had given him a great deal of pleasure.
It seemed to him that violence, well-skilled violence, was a tool no successful man could afford to ignore. In the last few years, he had used it often, and he thought, quite well.
The oddest thing was that it gave him so much more pleasure than he had expected. A kind of cheap, emotional profit, he decided. Privately, he could admit that by paying for it, he often soothed those black tempers that raged over him.
So many men he knew. Men who, like him, controlled great wealth and managed responsibilities, lost their edge by accepting certain failures, making too many concessions. Or they simply burned themselves out by fighting to stay on top. Frustrations, he thought, unreleased, festered. A wise man took his relief and always, always, counted the profit.
Now he had business to attend to, business to entertain him. At the moment, his priority was the Nomad, its crew, and its brilliant find.
As he’d ordered, the reports were on his desk. He’d handpicked the team for his expedition, from the scientists to the technicians and down to the galley staff. It pleased him to know that once again, his instincts had been on target. They hadn’t failed him. When the expedition was complete, VanDyke would see to it that each and every member of the Nomad team received a bonus.
He admired scientists tremendously, their logic and discipline, their vision. He was more than satisfied with Frank Litz, both as a biologist and as a spy. The man kept him up to date on the personal dynamics and intimacies of the Nomad’s crew.
Yes, he thought Litz a happy find, particularly after the disappointment of Piper. The young archeologist had had potential, VanDyke mused. But that one little flaw had made him sloppy.
Addictions led to a lack of order. Why, he himself had given up smoking years before simply to make a point. Inner strength equaled power over personal environment. A pity Piper had lacked inner strength. In the end, VanDyke had harbored no regrets in offering him the uncut cocaine that had killed him.
In truth, it had been rather thrilling. The ultimate termination of an employee.
Settling back, he studied the reports from Litz and his team of marine biologists on the ecosystem, the plants and animals that had colonized the wreck of the Justine. Sponges, gold coral, worms. Nothing was beneath VanDyke’s interest.
What was there could be harvested and used.
With the same respect and interest, he studied the reports of the geologists, the chemist, those of the representatives he had sent to observe the operation and its results.
Like a child with a treat, he saved the archeologist’s report for last. It was meticulously organi
zed, thorough and clear as new glass. No detail was omitted, down to the last shard of crockery. Each artifact was described, dated and photographed, each item catalogued according to the date and time it was discovered. There was a cross-reference with the chemist’s report as to how the article was treated, tested, cleaned.
A father’s pride swept through VanDyke as he read the carefully typed pages. He was glowingly pleased with Tate Beaumont, considered her a protégée.
She would make a fine replacement for the unfortunate Piper.
Perhaps it had been impulse that had urged him to have her education monitored over the years. But the impulse had more than paid off. The way she had faced him onboard the Triumphant with fury and intelligence firing her eyes. Oh, he admired that. Courage