The Reef by Nora Roberts Page A

He was a foot down, then two, while Tate worked busily to pick through the fallout. A school of triggerfish darted by. Matthew glanced up and saw through the murky cloud that the barracuda was grinning at him.
    On impulse, he shifted his position. He wouldn’t have considered himself superstitious. As a man of the sea he followed signs and lived by lore. The toothy fish hovered in nearly the same spot day after day. It wouldn’t hurt to use the mascot as a marker.
    Curious, Tate looked over as Matthew hauled the airlift several feet north where he was already forming a new hole. Tate let her attention drift and watched a kaleidoscope of fish whirl through the clouded water hunting for the sea worms displaced by the cut of the pipe.
    Something clinked against her tank. Efficiently, she turned back to resume her chores. The first glint of gold barely registered. She stared through the roiling water at the bed of sand. The flashes of brightness were scattered around her like flowers that had just bloomed. Stupefied, she reached down and plucked up a doubloon. The long-dead Spanish king stared back at her.
    The coin dropped from her numbed fingers. In a sudden fever, she began to harvest them, pushing them into her wet suit, jamming them into her lobster bag and ignoring the solid objects that drifted down in the thick column offallout. The conglomerate rained, but she was oblivious to it, facedown, scanning the seafloor like a miner panning for gold.
    Five coins, then ten. Twenty and more. Her breath rushed out in a shriek of laughter. She couldn’t seem to get enough air. When she looked up, she saw Matthew grinning at her, his eyes dark and wild. Behind her mask, her face was bone white.
    They’d hit the mother lode.
    He gestured to her. As if in a dream, she swam over and her trembling hand reached for his. Sand trickled down into the test hole, but she saw the sparkle of crystal from a perfectly preserved goblet, the sheen of coins and medallions. And everywhere the calcified shapes of artifacts. And there the blackened streak of sand that every hunter knew meant a river of silver.
    Behind them the ballast pile loomed. And beneath, the shining prize of the galleon Santa Marguerite and all her treasure.
    There was a roaring in Tate’s ears as she reached down and closed her hand over a thick gold chain. Slowly she drew it up. From it dangled a heavy cross crusted by sea life. And by emeralds.
    Her vision blurred as she held it out to Matthew. With sudden formality she carefully lifted the chain over his head. The simple generosity of the gesture touched him. He wished he could have held her, told her. All he could do was point a finger up. He cracked the valve on the airlift and followed her to the surface.
    She couldn’t speak. Even now it took all of her effort just to draw air in and out of her lungs. She was trembling like a leaf when she hoisted herself aboard. Strong arms lifted her.
    â€œHoney, you okay?” Buck’s face, lined with worry, loomed over her. “Ray, Ray, come on out here. Something wrong with Tate.”
    â€œNothing’s wrong,” she managed and sucked in air.
    â€œJust lie still.” Fretting like a mother hen, he eased off her face mask and nearly shuddered with relief when heheard Matthew clattering over the side. “What happened down there?” he demanded without turning around.
    â€œNot much.” Matthew let his weight belt fall.
    â€œNot much, my ass. Girl’s white as a sheet. Ray, get us some brandy here.”
    But Ray and Marla were already rushing out. Voices buzzed in Tate’s head. Hands were poking and probing for injury. She got her breath back on a giggle, then couldn’t stop.
    â€œI’m all right.” She had to press both hands over her mouth to hold back a fresh stream of hysterical laughter. “I’m fine. We’re both fine, aren’t we, Matthew?”
    â€œFine and dandy,” he agreed.