Nick Cutter is good at his job with his family's salvage
company but a gift for languages and his
uncanny way of knowing exactly where a person is from just
by hearing them speak has Nick occasionally helping out
T-Flac on a Special Operation. Nick is known
for his lack of sparkling personality and eyes that can
freeze an erupting volcano which
is why Nick thinks he effectively gets rid of Princess Bria
Visconti when she approaches him the first time asking for a
ride to his salvage ship. Unfortunately, Bria shows up
anyway, regardless of his gnarly disposition and cold eyes,
with a steely determination that fascinates Nick to no end.
Bria Visconti has flown clear across the world to demand
Nick Cutter refund the money her brother invested in
cutter Salvage for a silly treasure hunting expedition. The
money belongs to her country for rebuilding but without the
refund a bank loan defaults putting her country in the hands
of the Italians. Bria is extremely disappointed that simply
asking for and receiving the money is becoming more
complicated by the minute. Especially since Nick refuses to
give into the feminine wiles Bria uses to get what she
wants. His
cold eyes and lack of personality makes Bria's quest more
difficult but she refuses to take no for an answer.
RIPTIDE is the second book in Adair's Cutter Series and can
I say...wow! From page one Adair snares the reader's
attention while developing two of the most interesting
characters with Nick and Bria. The story line is strong and
action-packed from the get go right up until the final page.
RIPTIDE is exciting, thrilling, and 100% sexy. A perfect read!
Cherry Adair plunges into the dangerous world of high-sea
treasure hunting, where one man’s greatest passion unlocks
one woman’s wildest fantasies…SHE’S SWEPT INTO TREACHEROUS WATERS
Princess Bria Visconti demands the return of the money her
brother rashly invested in Cutter Salvage. Treasure hunter
Nick Cutter is too reckless, too arrogant—and far too
handsome—for his own good. But he can’t charm his way out of
this one. Bria plans to make Nick pay up even if she has to
board his boat, don a wet suit, and dive for the treasure
herself…
HE FIGHTS THE RELENTLESS PULL…
Nick sees Bria as a beautiful but spoiled princess who’s
never done a day’s work in her pampered life. But once they
set sail for the dive site, and the legendary fortune in
gold the wreck carries, Nick begins to see Bria in a new
light. This princess may be out of her depth, but she’s
ready to take on the hidden danger and excitement a treasure
hunt stirs to the surface. Together they must fight
unexpected enemies—and reveal their darkest secrets—before
they’re pulled into a rip current of danger.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Tarfaya
morocco
Trouble.
He didn't anticipate it, but Nick Cutter always planned for
it. And right now the hair on the back of his neck lifted.
Good enough for him.
Eyes concealed behind both brown contacts and dark
glasses, he stretched his long legs out beneath the table.
Toying with a small cup of fragrant mint tea, he scanned the
immediate area. Just because he couldn't see it, that didn't
mean it wasn't here. The café was situated in the deep shade
on the perimeter of a busy public square. Nick enjoyed a
good meal, and since he was in control of the meeting, he'd
eaten well, then pushed aside his empty plate to conclude
business. The men seated across from him conversed in low
Arabic, trying to come to agreement with his terms.
Two principals. Three bodyguards. All heavily armed.
Ostensibly bored, he waved a buzzing fl y away from his
face. He scanned the throngs of gregarious, noisy shoppers
milling about the square for an indication of why he
suddenly felt a brush of disquiet.
He wasn't worried that anyone would recognize him. His
disguise was solid. Like many of the people in the square,
he wore a mushroom- colored djellaba, a kaftan- type robe
that covered him from throat to toe. His most recognizable
features were concealed behind the dark glasses and
contacts. Judiciously applied makeup simulated the dusky
skin tones of the majority of the people around him. And to
further his disguise, his face was covered by a thick black
beard that desperately needed grooming. It itched like hell.
He'd had the beard for a while, now; time to shave it off.
If trouble was out there, it was for his alter ego Asim Nabi
El Malamah, not Nick Cutter. Which increased Nick's sense of
disquiet. El Malamah had a bad rep for good reason. Nick had
made sure of it.
Nothing seemed out of place. It was lunchtime, and the old
city center of the twelfth-century fortress- walled medina
was crowded and off the charts noisy. The hot breeze smelled
of cumin, paprika, coriander, garlic, onions, and the half
empty dishes of tajine on the table.
Women vying for the best produce bargained loudly, their
long jewel-colored djellabas brilliant as hummingbirds in
the harsh sunlight. Laughing and shrieking, their children
darted in and out of the stalls and between other shoppers,
adding to the noisy chaos.
Nick had metaphorically chased the two principals until
they'd caught him, then intentionally priced himself high
enough to make himself almost unattainable. Almost. They
wanted him, they'd pay. It was a precarious call, but a
calculated risk.
Calculated risks were something of his specialty. But his
superpower was his extraordinary ear for dialect
inflections. He was one of only a handful of people in the
world capable of determining a man's history from a snippet
of conversation. He spoke eleven languages fluently,
understood seven others, and even when he didn't speak the
language, prided himself on his ability to pick out nuances
so minute that he could pinpoint the difference in dialect
from towns fifty miles apart.
His specialized skills weren't in high demand, which made
the few "assignments" he accepted a novelty. He enjoyed
doing his thing— which usually meant listening in on
conversations at a safe distance from actual danger.
Players on the hook, Nick wanted back on board the
Scorpion, suited up and a hundred feet deep in the
ocean doing what he loved. Treasure hunting. They'd been
salvaging the El Puerto for several months, and he
was very pleased with the results. It was almost time to
take his haul back to Cutter Cay.
Sooner would suit him better than later. The original
"favor" he'd agreed to should have only taken an hour, tops.
Instead, it had taken him three days to make contact. Now he
knew what he wanted to know, and that should have been the
end of it.
But the favor was different this time.
His friends had asked him to go way beyond a quick listen to
ID a person of interest's back story, a hell of a lot more.
Nick had agreed to see this through to end game. He just
hoped to hell his fascination with puzzles, his linguistic
abilities, and his love of a challenge didn't come back to
bite him in the ass.
Like right about now.
He swiped a hand around the back of his neck as the two men
continued talking in urgent undertones. They thought he was
distracted, but he had ears— as his brother Logan
would attest— like a bat. Najeeb Qassem and Kadar
Gamali Tamiz whispered in darija, the informal
Moroccan Arabic spoken by the locals, but the inflection was
definitely Krio.
The fact that Qassem and Tamiz were both from Sierra Leone,
although they'd informed him they'd been born and raised in
Rabat, was not his concern. But the people he'd report this
meeting to in a couple of hours would have one more piece in
their intricately constructed puzzle.
And so would he, though he doubted his friends would share
anything else with him. He'd baited the trap, as requested.
It was past time for Asim Nabi El Malamah to disappear, and
Nick Cutter to get the hell out of Dodge.
Ready to close the deal, Nick placed his cup on the table
and shifted in his seat. Just then a gap opened between the
shoppers, and his swiftly moving gaze snagged on a leggy
brunette entering through one of the stone-arched gates.
Hard to miss her killer body displayed in tight jeans and a
loose white shirt among the loosely flowing djellaba-garbed
people around her.
Now wasn't she interesting and very much out of place?
He had a thing for tall, sophisticated brunettes.
Oh, yeah, Nick thought, observing the woman as she paused to
talk to the ancient man selling dried rosebuds by the gate;
she was definitely his thing. Her presence here could only
mean the trouble he was sensing. The old man pointed across
the square. He could be indicating the nearby silk kiosk, or
the jewelry maker next door to the café. The medina was so
tightly packed, the old man could have been pointing to a
dozen different things.
Nick's gut said otherwise.
The rose-seller was directing her to the table where he was
concluding business. The woman glanced across the square in
his direction, then turned back to smile her thanks, before
heading his way.
Oh, yeah. Trouble with a capital T.
The only European woman in the bustling outdoor market, she
stuck out like a catwalk model, and all eyes watched her
saunter across the uneven stone on her high heels as though
she were gliding over water. She had a loose-hipped stride
that triggered carnal thoughts and turned heads. Like a
heat- seeking missile, she was headed his way, her long legs
drawing attention Nick didn't need.
Damn it to hell.
He didn't have the luxury of a long slow perusal. The closer
she got, the faster he tried to figure out who'd sent her,
what they wanted, and what her angle was. She was striking,
and walked with the confident knowledge that men would look.
And want.
Yeah, she was trouble all right. And out of place in the sun
drenched, noisy, frenetic medina filled with midday shoppers.
Nick leaned back in his chair as she closed in.
"You know the woman?" Najeeb Qassem asked in Arabic. He
couldn't possibly miss the intent in the woman's long legged
stride, or the direct path she was taking.
She had a fascinating awareness of the space around her. The
square was crowded, but she didn't let anyone get within
arm's length. A nifty trick that must have taken a lot of
practice. She pulled it off like she wasn't even trying.
Fifty yards and closing.
"La," Nick responded shortly as he swiveled to redirect his
attention at Kadar Gamali Tamiz, seated on his left. No, he
didn't know her. But he suspected he knew who she was. Even
though her presence here in Morocco, and specifically in the
medina, made no sense.
Which made her sudden appearance in the same place as Nick
Cutter suspect.
Forty yards. "The number of containers, while somewhat
difficult to conceal, is acceptable," he said, his voice
cool. "The price, however, is not. Getting on board
undetected with all eyes on the ship will be a risky
endeavor. Cutter is no fool. And while he is docked here to
find more crew members, he will have his people scrutinize
each new hire scrupulously."
"Our men will pass even the closest scrutiny undetected, we
assure you."
Nick made to rise. "Then I suggest you use these men to
carry the merchandise on board," he said with enough
finality in his tone to suggest he wasn't anteing up any
more than he had already. "If it's such a simple task, you
don't need the likes of me to assure your prize is hidden
well enough to avoid discovery."
Tamiz's fingers closed on his wrist. Narrow-eyed, Nick
glanced from the man's hand to his face. Tamiz quickly
dropped his hand. "Apologies for the insult, my friend. My
men are merely insurance that the product stays where you
place it. Simple men."
Nick settled back into his chair. "Well armed?" Thirty
yards. Damn it.
"Of course."
"Good." Shit. Not good at all. Unknown, armed men on board
his ship was just asking for trouble. "Your product would be
valuable in any hands."
"You are a hard man to negotiate with, sadiqi."
"Not when the price is right." Nick kept the woman in his
peripheral vision. Twenty yards. With any luck she'd pass
by, he'd enjoy a glance at her ass, and that would be that.
He didn't have excess time to admire the gentle bob of her
breasts under her crisp white linen shirt. The hot breeze
teased a few strands of her dark hair out of the severe
hairstyle, and lovingly pressed the thin fabric of her shirt
against her body, highlighting her mouthwatering shape.
Fifteen feet.
Her footsteps slowed. A calculated move? Or indecision?
"We would double your fee should you escort the merchandise
to its final destination." Qassem, a stick-thin man in his
late sixties with a sun-lined face and bottomless black
eyes, leaned forward. Nick had no intention of spending
weeks on board his own ship in disguise.
"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 mega-yacht, 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 non existent 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.
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