Riptide by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page A

Senior used to poison his unfaithful wife. Pollyanna’s Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court. That’s the name for this plant in Indonesia that’ll kill you with a single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and that’s how it gets its victims.”
    She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said, “Hello, Tyler. Who’s this?”
    Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her, “Hey, you look familiar, you—”
    â€œI’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her for the Independent? ”
    She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling stupidly, not knowing what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything to Tyler. She was a fool.
    Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”
    â€œBecca Powell.”
    â€œYou write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities? Obits?”
    â€œNone of those things. I mainly write human interest articles about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity. I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”
    She’d whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched, “Like what, Ms. Powell?”
    â€œWhy feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a spinach salad.”
    â€œI suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information, stuff like that?”
    â€œThat’s right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds.”
    Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.
    Tyler said, “Dessert, Becca?”
    She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, “Yep, that’s what I am, dessert for a newspaper. I’m low on a priority list, very low.”
    â€œNo,” Tyler said. “I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for you, Bernie?”
    Bernie couldn’t stay. His wife was at the far table with one of their grandkids. “They make special hot dogs for kids here,” he said; then, “Why don’t you drop by withsome of the articles you’ve written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article.”
    â€œI didn’t bring any of them with me, sir, sorry.”
    Tyler gave her a look but didn’t say anything. But his eyes had widened just a bit. He’d finally realized that this was the last thing she needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he just ruminated awhile, looking at her, then said, “All right, write me up one—whatever topic you like—not over five hundred words, and we’ll see.”
    She nodded, wishing the guy was more hard-nosed. She watched him walk back to his table, stopping at three more tables on the way. She looked at Tyler and raised her hand to stop him. “No, I can’t work for him. I don’t have any ID I can use. I doubt he’d want to pay me in cash.”
    â€œDamn,” he said. “I didn’t think of that. I just finally realized that the more he saw you, he just might put you together with the Rebecca on TV.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I’ll write up an article or two and give them to him, tell him to see how the readers like them, then we can talk. He shouldn’t get suspicious then. I don’t need the money. I’m not going to