Riptide (2 page)

“Tempting. But mal de mer must limit my participation in this endeavor,” Nick told him easily, watching the woman close the gap between them. She looked innocuous enough, but as he well knew, looks were deceiving. Her shiny black hair was slicked back to reveal high cheekbones, freshly glossed red lips, and a smooth olive complexion. Her eyes were hidden, like his, behind dark glasses. His gaze skimmed her body for a weapon, and his muscles tensed in anticipation. The jeans were tight, the shirt loose, and the leather bag over her shoulder looked heavy. She could be carrying an arsenal on her and nobody would know it.

He shifted so he had better access to the Sig Sauer covered in the folds of his loose clothing. “I have no desire to take an extensive ocean voyage,” he told Qassem. “I negotiate only for safe delivery of the merchandise to the ship, and making sure that it is well hidden so that it arrives as safely as a babe in his mother’s arms at its destination.”

Nick’s pulse picked up a different rhythm as the woman stepped into the shade mere feet from the table. She was close enough now for him to smell the heated perfume of her skin. Spiced peach. Sophisticated. Sexy. Exotic.

“Excusez-moi, messieurs.”
Her contralto was naturally husky. Black velvet and incense. “Which of you is Asim Nabi El Malamah?” She spoke French with intriguing and subtle layers, doing a credible job pronouncing the unfamiliar name.

Too bad Nick didn’t want to hear it from her. Especially here. And sure as hell not now.

Her dialect gave her away. The second she’d said the first couple of words he knew
exactly
who she was.

Princess Gabriella Visconti.

Still didn’t answer why she was there. Or who’d sent her.

People were stopping what they were doing to stare. At her. At him. At his lunch companions. She looked expensive, chic, and perfectly at ease. Not a bead of perspiration marred her perfectly made-up matte complexion in the afternoon heat. Her hair, twisted into a coil at her nape, caught the sunlight with blue-black highlights, her olive skin hinted at the Mediterranean, and her accent was layered with more than enough to pique Nick’s interest. He ruthlessly tamped down his curiosity.

He knew the gist. More than enough.

“I’m busy,” he told her without inflection in Moroccan French. Asim Nabi El Malamah was notorious for doing anything. For a price. But his skills weren’t for the likes of her. And her contact with him, at this time, in this persona, could get her killed. Or worse.

Unfazed, she readjusted the heavy-looking leather tote up on her shoulder. “I’d like to hire y—”

“I repeat,” Nick’s voice was cold. Dismissive. Final. “I’m busy. Leave us, woman.”

“You to transport me to a ship…” She waved a slender hand in the general direction of the marina as if he hadn’t said a word.

Nick ran a bored finger around the rim of the gold cup, sharing an amused glance with the men at the table. Women, his shrug said, what can a man do?

Qassem scratched his beard. “What ship?”

Her hesitation was infinitesimal before she answered. “The
Scorpion
.” She turned back to Nick. “Do you know it?”

His ship? “No.” Nick slouched back and lifted his cup; the metal was warm from the tea. He glided his thumb across the smooth surface and wondered what her breast would feel like under his hand. Yes, she was definitely his type. Brunette, long-legged, and sophisticated. As if she’d been fashioned especially for him.

And she wanted on board the
Scorpion
.

He didn’t believe in coincidences.

Someone knew his tastes. Gold glinted at her ears, around the base of her slender throat, and around one wrist as she said pleasantly, “I’ll pay you many dirhams for a few minutes of your time.”

Nick glanced up, saw his own surly hirsute face reflected in her dark glasses, and said with icy disdain, “I have no need of your money.” Jesus. The foolish woman had no idea what she’d just interrupted. Or did she? Was she a ladybug fearlessly walking into the web of a deadly steppe spider? Or the spider herself? He looked her up and down. Slowly. “Unless you are willing to offer more than coin?”

Tamiz laughed. The other man at the table remained stone-faced.

She frowned, or possibly scowled. Hard to tell behind the big sunglasses. “I’ll give you my watch, it’s a—”

“You offer a watch when I suggest a fuck? I have no need of a woman’s watch. A woman? Possibly. When I have completed my business here. Wait for me at the Hotel Dar El Kebira, we can … talk there.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Your exchange rate is disproportionate to the request, Asim Nabi El Malamah,” she told him dryly. “It is, after all, merely a short trip. A miserly amount of your time. I’ll find other transportation.”

As long as she managed it tomorrow, Nick was okay with that. The
Scorpion
sailed from Tarfaya harbor at dusk tonight. “You do that.”

Her lips tightened. “I will. Gentlemen.” She nodded curtly to the others, then turned to leave.

Nick reached out and snagged her wrist. “If you should find a man stupid enough to transport you to the ship, be prepared to spread your legs for him. Make no mistake, your request will imply consent, Mademoiselle.”

Lips tight, she glanced pointedly from his fingers shackling her wrist back to his face. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Her expression read “Fuck you.” She turned and walked away.

Nick turned back to Najeeb Qassem. “My time is valuable, gentlemen.” He pushed away from the table, getting to his feet. “Meet my price, or you, too, must find another mule.”

*   *   *

“Son of a bitch!” Bria Visconti muttered under her breath as the dragonfly-sized helicopter landed with a jarring thump on the seemingly too small helipad 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 five-inch heels was a nifty trick. She was lucky she didn’t break a leg as they ducked under the still spinning blades.

Bria straightened and pushed open the glass door, looking around for a second to orient herself as the man shut it behind him. The noise of the helicopter abruptly cut off.

The vast room, surrounded on three sides by enormous windows, gave a panoramic view of nothing but flat water all the way to the horizon. A massive stone wall fountain—wall
waterfall
—taking up the entire far wall provided a pleasant ambient sound and reminded her she needed a bathroom.

She ran a light hand over the coil at her nape to make sure her hair hadn’t fallen out of the combs. It hadn’t. Double-checking was a nervous habit.

The room was elegantly, if austerely, furnished in white with touches of navy. Very “Give-me-something-clean-looking-not-fussy-money’s-no-object.” Sleek white canvas sofas and wavy chairs, glass and chrome, some interesting, but sparse, objets d’art here and there, and a highly polished, dark teak floor. Impersonal and expensive, and impossible to gauge the personality of the person who’d paid for it. The room was too modern for Bria’s tastes, but then she wouldn’t be staying long enough to care one way or the other.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, and she wished she hadn’t put her dark glasses away. But she wanted to appear sincere and open when she met Mr. Cutter.

Before leaving the hotel this morning, she’d exchanged the jeans and T-shirt she’d traveled in for a figure-skimming red sundress that showed off her bare arms, had enough cleavage to distract a man, and was short enough to display her long legs to advantage. Red-soled strappy black sandals with five-inch heels made walking on a slightly bobbing ship a bit problematic, but the killer heels accentuated the outfit to perfection.

Unless Nick Cutter was gay or blind, he was going to be putty in her hands.

The man who’d brought her inside crossed the room to her side. He was in his fifties, with ginger hair and a thick beard. His unwelcoming glare wasn’t in any way masked behind frameless glasses. “Is Mr. Cutter expect—” he began, just as she said, “I’m—”

“Principessa Gabriella Visconti,” a deep, vaguely familiar voice said from behind her.

Bria turned around slowly. She hadn’t heard the second man approaching although the floor was uncarpeted. Which was weird, because he was large and imposing, and seemed to suck up all the oxygen in the room by his very presence.

He was barefoot and half naked, wearing just the bottom half of a wetsuit. Diamond-like droplets of water sparkled in the dark hair on his sculptured chest, then ran in a straight, neat line down his flat belly to disappear under tight black neoprene.

The punch to her gut was completely unexpected. Bria had expected Nick Cutter to be in his late sixties at least. She’d pictured paunchy, dissipated. Gray hair if any. She’d pictured avuncular.

He was none of the above.

She noticed his dark hair and that he was tall, tanned, and had the long lean muscles of an athlete. She noticed the wet sheen on his skin, and the smell of salty male. But it was his striking, impossibly blue eyes that made Bria want to press her fist to the pterodactyls swooping in her tummy, and caused her breath to hitch. Testosterone poisoning, she diagnosed, feeling a little panicky.

And here she’d only brought determination and cleavage.

“You know who I am?”
Please
, Bria thought a little desperately,
please don’t be Cutter.
This man had his own gravitational field, complete with tractor-beam eyes. He had an almost visible aura of raw power kept on an incredibly tight leash.

He didn’t appear to be a man who’d be distracted by long legs or boobs. He looked like a man who had things to do and places to go, and she was an inconvenience. A not-that-interesting inconvenience.

“I read the papers,” he said smoothly in flawless Italian, maintaining eye contact.
Okay. Not a boob man
. “You’re extremely photogenic, Your Highness. Thanks, Blake,” he added in English, addressing the older man hovering beside her. “I’ll take it from here.” He turned those extraordinary blue eyes back to her, his expression set and coldly dismissive and not in the least welcoming nor interested.

“I’m Cutter. What can I do for you, Princess?” he asked coolly, switching back to Italian. A single drop of water snaked slowly down his bronzed bicep and she had to blink the conversation back into focus.