Riptide Read Free

on the upper deck of the Scorpion .
    Nick Cutter’s boat—ship—was a megayacht, all gleaming white paint and shiny brass, and the size of a blasted football field. It was in the middle of nowhere between the Canary Islands and Madeira and pretty much in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Nothing for miles around but sparkling cobalt ocean and powder-blue skies.
    Either Cutter had used the money—her family’s money—to help pay for this expensive toy, or he had other investors funding his expensive taste. One thing was blatantly, conspicuously evident: He had money to burn.
    Peachy. That would make her job here much easier. Bria’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth for hours. She took a deep breath, relaxing the stress from her shoulders and jaw. She had a temper, and it had been simmering for days, but she was determined not to let it boil over. This could be handled in a civilized manner, and she was determined to be cool, calm, decisive, and above all—firm.
    The trip from California on such short notice had cost her a small fortune, which she could little afford. She’d been unemployed for a year, and this trip had wiped out her meager savings. If she’d found someone to take her the short trip between Tarfaya and the Scorpion yesterday, she wouldn’t have had to spring for an expensive, last-minute flight from Tarfaya all the way to Las Palmas. Hiring this private helicopter to take her from the Canary Islands all the way the hell and gone out here in the middle of nowhere hadn’t been on the agenda either.
    She’d been unhappy when she’d received the call at home in Sacramento, she’d been unhappy on her flight to Morocco, she’d gotten downright cranky when she’d realized that asking to be transported anywhere from Tarfaya without giving up an organ or her virtue was next to impossible. And she’d been pissed beyond belief yesterday when she’d realized that the Scorpion had sailed out of reach of any relatively inexpensive-to-hire motor launch.
    So much for the tall, dark, and hairy Asim Nabi El Malamah who-would-do-anything-for-the-right-price. He hadn’t, he didn’t, and his laziness had cost her a lot of money. Jerk .
    Each arduous, annoying step of this journey had ratcheted up her anger and frustration. She’d never met the man, but Nick Cutter was already a pain in her ass. At this point, Bria knew she’d be hard-pressed to be civil, let alone honey-sweet.
    “Almost over,” she told herself. She smoothed her hair back neatly, tucking nonexistent wisps into the chignon at her nape before removing a small gold compact and lipstick from her tote. Her makeup was flawless, all she needed was a fresh swipe of kick-ass red gloss to boost her courage. One last look. She was good to go.
    She’d taken off the headset the pilot had given her in Las Palmas and picked it up again as the rotors spun noisily overhead. She hooked the strap of her heavy tote over her shoulder, armed for battle. “You’re sure there’s no other ship with the name Scorpion ?” She’d pictured a decrepit dive boat, not this multi-gazillion-dollar floating palace.
    “Ask him,” the pilot said indicating a man in white T-shirt and shorts running toward the helicopter. He was bowed low to prevent being decapitated by the slowly spinning rotors. Nick Cutter? Bria’s heart did a little hop, skip, and jump.
    “Espérame,” she instructed the pilot to wait in Spanish. “I will return shortly.”
    “El viento empieza a soplar. No voy a esperar si mi helicóptero está en peligro, señorita.”
    Oh, for—! Bria noticed the windsock thingy fluttering on a nearby pole; the wind was blowing, but it was hardly wild enough for concern, she was sure. “No pasará mucho tiempo,” she insisted.
    She took the pilot’s grunt as a yes, he’d wait.
    The middle-aged man in white popped open the door, then helped Bria down and pointed across the deck to a glass-walled atrium nearby. Bent almost double and trying to run on