dressed gnome. For some reason, she found it appealing. “I’ll keep an eye on your nephew, Buck.”
He grinned at that, his laugh like gravel hitting stone. “You do that, girl. And good hunting.”
With a nod, Tate executed a smooth back roll from the rail, and headed down. She waited, as a responsible partner, for Matthew’s dive. The moment she saw him enter the water, she turned and swam toward the bottom.
Sea fans the color of lilacs waved gracefully in the current. Fish, startled by the intrusion, darted away, a colorful stream of life and motion. If she had been with her father, she might have lingered to enjoy the moment, that always-stunning transition between being a creature of the air, and one of the sea.
She might have taken the time to gather a few pretty shells for her mother, or remained still long enough to coax a fish to glide over and inspect the newcomer.
But with Matthew closing the distance between them, Tate was struck less by the wonder of it than by a keen sense of competition.
Let’s see him try to keep up, she decided, and kicking hard, skimmed westward. The water cooled on descent, but remained comfortable. It was a pity, she thought, that they were far from the more interesting reefs and coral gardens, but there was enough to please the senses—the water itself, the sway of fans, a flashing fish.
She kept her eyes peeled for lumps or discolorations in the sand. Damned if she’d miss something and let him surface in triumph again.
She reached for a broken piece of coral, examined it, discarded it. Matthew swam by her, taking the lead. Though Tate reminded herself the change of lead was basic diving procedure, she fretted until she could once more take the point.
They communicated only when strictly necessary. After agreeing to spread out, they kept each other in view. As much, Tate thought, in suspicion as safety.
For an hour, they combed the area where they had found the sword. Tate’s first sense of anticipation began to wane when they discovered nothing more. Once she fanned away at sand, her heart thumping as she caught a glint. Her visions of some ancient shoe buckle or plate faded when she uncovered a twentieth-century can of Coke.
Discouraged, she swam farther north. Here, suddenly, a vast undersea garden of brightly patterned shells and coral with darting fish feeding. Lovely branched coral, too fragile to survive the wave action of shallow water, speared and spread in ruby and emerald and mustard yellow. Itwas home to dozens of creatures that hid in it, fed on it, or indeed fed it.
Pleasure slid through her as she watched a volute with its pumpkin-colored shell creep its laborious way along a rock. A clown fish darted through the purple-tipped tentacles of a sea anemone, immune to their stinging. A trio of regal angelfish glided along, a formation in search of breakfast.
Like a kid in a candy store, Matthew thought, as he watched her. She was holding her position with slow movements, her eyes darting as she tried to take in everything at once.
He’d liked to have dismissed her as foolish, but he appreciated the sea’s theater. Both the drama and comedy continued around them—the sunny yellow wrasses busily cleaning the demanding queen triggerfish, devoted as ladies-in-waiting. There, quick and lethal, the ambushing moray darted from his cave to clamp his jaws over the unwary grouper.
She didn’t flinch from her up-close seat of instant death, but studied it. And he had to admit she was a good diver. Strong, skilled, sensible. She didn’t like working with him, but she held up her end.
He knew that most amateurs became discouraged if they didn’t stumble across some stray coin or artifact within an hour. But she was systematic and apparently tireless. Two other traits he appreciated in a diving partner.
If they were going to be stuck with each other, at least for a couple of months, he might as well make the best of it.
In what he considered a gesture of