The Reef Read Online Free Page A

iced tea and a paperback novel.
    â€œI guess I’ll go over and clean up my booty.” Matthew reached for a large plastic bag. “Mind if I borrow this?” Without waiting for a response, he loaded his gear into it, then hefted his tanks. “Want to give me a hand?”
    â€œNo.”
    He only lifted a brow. “I figured you might want to see how this cleans up.” He gestured with the sword, waited to see if her curiosity would overpower her irritation. He didn’t wait long.
    With a mutter, she snatched the plastic bag and took it down the ladder to the swim step and over the side with her.
    The Sea Devil looked worse close up. Tate judged its sway in the current expertly and hauled herself over the rail. She caught a faint whiff of fish.
    Gear was carefully stowed and secured. But the deck needed washing as much as it needed painting. The windows on the tiny wheelhouse where a hammock swung were smudged and smeared with salt and smoke. A coupleof overturned buckets, and a second hammock, served as seats.
    â€œIt’s not the Queen Mary. ” Matthew stored his tanks. “But it’s not the Titanic either. She ain’t pretty, but she’s seaworthy.”
    He took the bag from her and stored his wet suit in a large plastic garbage can. “Want a drink?”
    Tate took another slow look around. “Got anything sterilized?”
    He flipped open the lid of an ice chest, fished out a Pepsi. Tate caught it on the fly and sat down on a bucket. “You’re living on board.”
    â€œThat’s right.” He went into the wheelhouse. When she heard him rattling around, she reached over to stroke the sword he’d laid across the other bucket.
    Had it graced the belt of some Spanish captain with lace at his cuffs and recklessness in his soul? Had he killed buccaneers with it, or worn it for style? Perhaps he had gripped it in a white-knuckled hand as the wind and the waves had battered his ship.
    And no one since then had felt its weight.
    She looked up, saw Matthew standing at the wheelhouse door watching her. Furiously embarrassed, Tate snatched her hand back, took a casual drink from her Pepsi.
    â€œWe have a sword at home,” she said evenly. “Sixteenth century.” She didn’t add that they had only the hilt, and that it was broken.
    â€œGood for you.” He took the sword, settled with it on the deck. He was already regretting the impulsive invitation. It didn’t do much good for him to keep repeating to himself that she was too young. Not with her T-shirt wet and molded against her, and those creamy, just sun-kissed legs looking longer than they had a right to. And that voice—half whiskey, half prim lemonade—didn’t belong to a child, but to a woman. Or it should have.
    She frowned, watching him patiently working on the corrosion. She hadn’t expected those scarred, rough-looking hands to be patient.
    â€œWhy do you want partners?”
    He didn’t look up. “Didn’t say I did.”
    â€œBut your uncle—”
    â€œThat’s Buck.” Matthew lifted a shoulder. “He handles the business.”
    She propped her elbows on her knees, her chin in the heels of her hands. “What do you handle?”
    He glanced up then, and his eyes, restless despite the patience of his hands, clashed with hers. “The hunt.”
    She understood that, exactly, and smiled at him with an eagerness that ignored the sword between them. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Thinking about what could be there, and that you might be the one to find it. Where did you find the coin?” At his baffled look, she grinned and reached out to touch the disk of silver at his chest. “The piece of eight.”
    â€œMy first real salvage dive,” he told her, wishing she didn’t look so appealingly fresh and friendly. “California. We lived there for a while. What are you doing diving for treasure