by Nora Roberts
along the way. Always anonymously, of course. He hadn’t been looking for gratitude.
Just loyalty.
Her work on the Nomad would have catapulted her to the very top of her field. With her looks, her enthusiasm, her youth, she would have outstripped such quietly respected scientists as Hayden Deel. Then, when she was at peak, he would have stepped out of the shadows and offered her the world.
She would have headed his expeditions. His labs, his funding, his finest equipment would have been at her disposal. She would have joined him in his quest for Angelique’s Curse. Since that day eight years before, when she had stood on the deck of the Triumphant, he had known intuitively that she was his link to it. Over the years, he’d come to 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. He might 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 well. Nothing stirred but the gulls.
She decided she would go ashore later that morning on the supply run. But for now, she would enjoy a quiet, solitary swim.
She slipped into the water, letting it flow over her shoulders as she tipped her head back. It was just cool enough to refresh. Treading water lazily, she turned a slow circle. Her sigh of delight turned into a gasp as something grabbed her leg and pulled her under.
She sputtered furiously to the surface. Behind his mask, Matthew’s eyes glinted.
“Sorry, hard to resist. I was just doing some free diving and saw these legs poke through the water. You’ve got great legs, Red. All the way up.”
“It’s a very big sea, Matthew,” she said primly. “Go play somewhere else.”
“Why don’t you go get a mask and come down with me?”
“Not interested.”
“I’ve got a bag of crackers in the pocket of my trunks.” He reached over to pluck a strand of wet hair from her face. “Don’t you want to feed the fish?”
She did, but only if she’d thought of it first. “No.” Giving him her shoulder, she swam deliberately away.
He did a neat surface dive, swam under her and came up in her face again. “You used to be fun.”
“You used to be marginally less annoying.”
He matched his pace to hers. “Of course, you’d be out of practice diving, spending all your time with computers and robots. That’s probably why even a little snorkeling worries you.”
“I’m not worried. I dive as well as I ever did. Better.”
“We’ll have to do some swim-overs while we’re looking for the Isabella. I say you need the practice.”
“I do not need to practice snorkeling.”
“Prove it,” he challenged and kicked away from her.
She lectured herself, cursed him, but she ended up hauling herself back aboard the boat for snorkel gear. The man was an idiot, of course, she told herself, as she dropped into the water again. But he knew what buttons to push. Her only satisfaction would be to show him just how good she was.
Adjusting her mouthpiece, she skimmed onto the surface. She’d forgotten, until the moment her gaze swept through water to fish and sand, how long it had been since she’d dived—free or scuba—for pleasure only.
She paddled along dreamily, the challenge forgotten. Until Matthew streaked past beneath her, rolling until they were nearly mask-to-mask. He was grinning, then water fountained out of his pipe above the surface. He cocked his head, gestured down. Without waiting, he jackknifed and left her behind.
It was all the motivation she needed. She filled her lungs with air and kicked after him.
This was a world that always lived in her heart. Waving patches of sea grass, clear water, the plains and hillocks of sand. And when Matthew released the broken crackers from the bag
he carried, teams of greedy fish.
They swarmed around her, bodies bright as they nipped and gobbled the feast. One or two were curious enough to stare into her face mask before darting off to join the competition for food. Her lungs were aching before she kicked up, blew her pipe clear and drew in more air.
Nearly an hour passed before she kicked to the surface. Tate pulled up her mask and lay contentedly on her back to float.
“Maybe you haven’t lost your touch,” Matthew commented.
“I haven’t spent all my time in a lab.”
Because her eyes were closed, he indulged himself and let his fingers comb through the hair that flowed red and silky on the water. “You didn’t come in when we docked at San Juan.”
“I was busy with other things.” But she’d seen him, swimming powerfully through the water, and working with LaRue on diving lessons.
“Your thesis.”
“That’s right.” A faint tug on her hair had her brushing a hand back. Her fingers collided with his.
“Sorry. What’s your thesis on?”
Cautious, she let herself drift a few inches away from where he tread water. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
He said nothing for a moment, surprised by the hot surge of resentment. “You’re probably right.”
Something in his tone had her opening her eyes again.
“I barely got through high-school term papers. What would I know about doctorates and theses?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Ashamed of herself, she reached out for his arm before he could go under again.
“I didn’t. I only meant I didn’t think you’d care about some long-winded technical paper when you’ve already done everything I could write about. And the truth is, I want the damned thing over.”
“I thought you liked that stuff.”
“I do. I—” Annoyed with herself, she floated again, closed her eyes again. “I don’t know what I mean. My thesis is on the inherent versus the monetary value of artifacts. It’s not terribly original, but I thought I might focus on one piece, tracing it from its beginnings through to its discovery and analysis. Or I might scrap the whole thing and go back to my first idea of how technological advancements have improved and depersonalized the science of marine archaeology. Or . . .”
She opened one eye. “You can see why I’m not thrilled you tried to pin me down.”
“So, you haven’t made up your mind yet. What’s the hurry?”
“I thought there was one.” How could she explain that she felt as though she’d been on a treadmill for years. One of her own choosing, certainly. But that she’d suddenly, and impulsively, leapt off. She didn’t have her feet under her yet, and wasn’t sure how to get back on when the time came.
“You always got that line, right there, when you tried to out-think yourself.” He skimmed a fingertip between her brows.
She batted his hand aside. “Go away, Lassiter. I’m having a good time stewing over a professional crisis.”
“Looks to me like you have to be taught how to relax all over again.” He planted a hand firmly on her face and pushed.
She went under, but she was quick enough to snag him on the way down. She got her chin above water, and would have been more successful pulling in air if she hadn’t been giggling. When he closed a hand over her ankle, she kicked out with her other foot and had the satisfaction of meeting flesh before he dragged her down again.
Rather than struggle, she went limp. The instant his grip loosened, she gave him a solid butt, then struck out for the boat. She wasn’t certain if he was quicker than he’d once been, or if she was slower, but she didn’t make it four strokes.
By the time she clawed her way to the surface again, she was weak and out of breath.
“You’re drowning me.”
“I’m saving you,” he corrected. Indeed he was holding her up. Their legs were tangled so he used one arm to keep them buoyant while the other stayed wrapped around her.
“Maybe I am out of shape.” She fought to get her breath back and used one hand to swipe hair out of her eyes.
“Not from where I’m swimming.”
It took a moment for the laughter to fade from her face, a moment before she realized she was clinging to him, that his body was hard, nearly naked and pressed close to hers. It took a moment to read the desire in his eyes and for the raw echo of it to sound through her.
“Let me go, Matthew.”
He could feel her trembling now, and she’d gone pale. But he knew it wasn’t from fear. She’d often looked and felt just like this before. When she’d wanted him.
“Your heart’s pounding, Tate. I can practically hear it.”
“I said—”
He leaned forward, caught her bottom lip lightly between his teeth and watched her eyes cloud. “Go ahead,” he challenged against her mouth. “Say it again.”
He didn’t give her the chance. His lips were devouring hers, crushing then nibbling, then seducing apart so that he could take the kiss into the deep and the dark and the dangerous.
By Christ, he’d please himself. That’s what he thought, even as he suffered. She was everything he’d remembered and sought to forget. Everything and more. Even as they sank beneath the surface, kicked back into air wrapped in each other, he knew it wasn’t the sea that would drown him. But his desperate, endless need for her.
The taste of her, the smell and the feel. The sound of her breath catching on confused pleasure. The memories of the past and the reality of now tangled until he could almost forget there had been time between.
She hadn’t known she could still feel like this. So hungry and out of control. She didn’t want to think, not when her body was so intensely alive and every nerve in it on shivering edge.
It was just physical. She could cling to that as well as him. A man’s hard, demanding mouth, that wet, slippery flesh, a tough, ready body molded to hers. No, she didn’t want to think. But she had to.
“No.”
She managed one breathless syllable before his mouth came back and sent her mind reeling again. She felt her will slipping and struggled against both him and herself.
“I said no.”
“I heard you.” A dozen separate wars waged inside him. He wanted her, and knew by the way her mouth had fit on his that he could have her. He needed her, and read the mirror of that in her dazed eyes. If want and need had been all, the war would have been over quickly.
But he loved her. And that left him a victim bleeding on his own battlefield.
“I didn’t do that alone, Tate. But you can pretend I did if it makes you feel better.”
“I don’t have to pretend anything. Let go of me.”
He already had. And that helped curve his lips into something close to a smile. “You’re holding me, sweetheart.” He brought his hands out of the water, palms facing her.
On an oath, she released the grip her arms had somehow taken around him. “I know the cliché, Lassiter, but this time history isn’t going to repeat itself. We work together, we dive together. That’s all we do together.”
“It’s your choice, Red. It always was.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“No problem.” He struck out in a lazy backstroke. “Unless you’re worried you won’t be able to resist me.”
“I can manage,” she called after him.
He’d have been pleased to see the line was between her brows again. Muttering to herself, Tate went under to cool her head, then swam in the opposite direction.
“You’re not going down again until you pass the written test.” Matthew shoved papers under LaRue’s nose. “That’s the way it is.”
“I’m not a schoolboy.”
“You’re a trainee. I’m your instructor, and you’re going to take the written test. Pass it, you dive. Fail it, you’re grounded. The first part’s equipment identification.” Matthew leaned forward. “You remember what a regulator is, don’t you, LaRue?”
“It gives the air from the tank to the diver.” LaRue pushed the papers aside. “So?”