The Reef by Nora Roberts Page B

of himself, he let his brow rest on hers. “I thought you said you were the careful one.”
    “Not about you.” Full of love and trust, she nuzzled into him. Heart to heart. “Never about you. When you kissed me the first time, I knew you were what I’d been waiting for.”
    He had no compass, no direction, but he knew it was essential to reverse course. “Tate, we have to take this slow. You’re not ready for what I’m thinking of. Believe me.”
    “You want to make love with me.” Her chin came up. Her eyes, all at once, were a woman’s, and just as mysterious. “I’m not a child, Matthew.”
    “Then I’m not ready. And I’m not willing to do something that would hurt your parents. They’ve been straight with me and Buck.”
    Pride, she thought. Pride, loyalty and integrity. Was it any wonder she loved him? Her lips curved. “All right. We’ll take it slow. But it’s between us, Matthew. What we decide, and what we want.” She leaned forward, touched her lips to his. “I can wait.”

C HAPTER 5
    S TORMS SWEPT IN and made diving impossible for the next two days. When the first wave of impatience passed, Tate settled down on the boat deck of the Adventure to clean and catalogue the pieces of the Santa Marguerite her father and Buck had brought up on the last dive.
    Rain drummed on the tarp stretched overhead. The islands had vanished in the mist, leaving only restless seas and angry skies. Their world had whittled down to water, and each other.
    In the deckhouse, a marathon poker game was in progress. Voices, a laugh, a curse, drifted out to her over the monotonous patter of rain. Tate cleaned the corrosion from a crudely made silver cross, and knew she’d never been happier in her life.
    With a mug of coffee in each hand, Matthew ducked under the tarp. “Want some help?”
    “Sure.” Just looking at him had her heart cartwheeling into her throat. “Is the poker game breaking up?”
    “No, but my luck is.” He sat beside her, offered a mug. “Buck just blew down my full house with a straight flush.”
    “I can never keep straight what beats what. I’m better at gin.” She held up the cross. “Maybe the ship’s cookwore this, Matthew. It would have banged against his chest when he beat batter for biscuits.”
    “Yeah.” He fingered the silver. It was an ugly piece, more likely fashioned by a blacksmith than a jeweler. Neither did it have weight. Matthew dismissed it as little value. “What else you got here?”
    “These rigging hasps. See, they’ve still got traces of rope in them. Imagine.” She handled the black metal reverently. “How they would have fought to save the ship. The wind would have been screaming, the sails in tatters.”
    She looked beyond into the mist and saw what had been. “Men clinging to lines and masts as the ship heeled. Passengers terrified. Mothers holding their children while the ship pitched and heeled. And we’re finding what’s left of them.”
    She set the fitting down and lifted a clay pipe with both hands. “A seaman kept this tucked in his pocket, stood on deck after his watch to light it and enjoy a quiet smoke. And this tankard would have been filled with ale.”
    “Too bad it’s missing the handle.” He plucked it up, turned it over. He didn’t want to admit her vision had moved him. “Devaluates it.”
    “You can’t just think about the money.”
    He grinned. “Sure I can, Red. You take the drama, I’ll take the dough.”
    “But—” He cut off her objection with a quick, sneaky kiss.
    “You look so cute when you’re indignant.”
    “Really?” She was young enough, and in love enough, to be flattered. Picking up her coffee, she sipped, watching him over the rim. “I don’t believe you’re nearly as mercenary as you pretend.”
    “Believe it. History’s fine if you can make something from it. Otherwise, it’s just dead guys.” He glanced up, barely noticing her frown. “Rain’s slowing down. We’ll dive