The Reef by Nora Roberts

high and dry. If you forget that, and take advantage of the stars in her eyes, both of you’ll be the worse for it.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t occur to you that I might be good enough for her.”
    â€œYou’re good enough for anybody,” Buck corrected. “Better’n most. But being right for somebody’s different.”
    â€œSo speaks the voice of experience.”
    â€œMaybe I don’t know a goddamn thing about women. But I know you.” Hoping to calm the waters, he laid a hand on Matthew’s rigid shoulder. “We got a chance at the big time here, Matthew. Men like us look all our lives, only a few of us find it. We found it. All we have to do is take it. You can make something out of yourself with your share. Once you do, there’ll be plenty of time for women.”
    â€œSure.” Matthew picked up his beer, tipped it back. “No sweat.”
    â€œThere you go.” Relieved, Buck gave his shoulder a slap. “Let’s take a look at the engine.”
    â€œI’ll be right there.”
    Alone, Matthew stared at the bottle in his hand until he’d willed back the clawing urge to smash it into jaggedpieces. There was nothing Buck had told him that he hadn’t already told himself. And less kindly.
    He was a third-generation treasure hunter with a legacy of bad luck that had dogged him like a bloodhound all of his life. He’d lived by his wits, and the occasional flip side of that luck. He had no ties but to Buck, no property other than what he could strap on his back.
    He was a drifter, nothing more, nothing less. The prospect of fortune forty feet beneath his feet would make the drifting more comfortable, but it wouldn’t change it.
    Buck was right. Matthew Lassiter of no fixed address and less than four hundred dollars tucked into a cigar box had no right picturing himself with Tate Beaumont.
    Â 
    Tate had other ideas. It was frustrating to discover over the next few days that the only time she found herself alone with Matthew was under water. There communication and physical contact were hampered.
    She would change that, she promised herself as she searched the fallout from the airlift. And she would change it today. After all, it was her twentieth birthday.
    Carefully, she picked among the nails, the spikes, the shells, eyes peeled for the valuables that scattered. Ship fittings, a sextant, a small, hinged brass box, a silver coin embedded in a hunk of coral. A wooden crucifix, an octant and a lovely china cup sliced delicately in two.
    All this she gathered, ignoring the pings of debris against her back, the occasional nick on her hand.
    A glint of gold shot by her. Tate’s heart careened in her chest as she scanned the cloud for the telltale flash of it. The small, quick gleam had her darting forward, dipping toward the sand and sending the burrowing rays rising in a swirling cloud.
    Her mind was screaming treasure, doubloons, jewels of great price and age. But when her hand closed around the piece of gold, her eyes began to swim.
    It wasn’t a coin, or jewelry long buried beneath the waves. Not a priceless artifact, but priceless nonetheless. She lifted the gold locket with the single pearl dripping from its point.
    When Tate turned back, she saw that Matthew was pointing the airlift pipe away and watching her. He sketched letters in the water with his finger. H. B. D. Happy birthday. With a gurgle of laughter, she swam toward him. Undaunted by tanks and hoses, she took his hand, pressed it to her cheek.
    He let it lie there a moment, then waved her away. His signal an obvious “Stop loafing.”
    Once more the airlift sucked at sand. Ignoring the fallout, Tate carefully secured the necklace by looping it around her wrist. She went back to work with love soaring in her heart.
    Matthew concentrated on the offshore end of the ballast mound. Patiently, he cut into the sand, creating an ever-widening circle with sloping sides.