Page 13 of Cutter’s Lady

Chapter 3

Cutter sat on a plastic chair in the foreign-flights terminal of the Houston airport, a dark blue waterproof duffel bag at his feet. He didn’t look out of place; the jeans, boots, hat, flannel shirt and down vest could be found on men all over the terminal. Yet Leslie spotted him immediately. She started toward him, and Cutter glanced up, almost as if he had sensed her presence.

Without moving a muscle Cutter watched her approach, but his insides made up for the stillness on the surface. Leslie was still elegantly dressed but in a style that was somewhat more casual and… He wasn’t sure what the other elusive quality was. Perhaps feminine? She wore a dress that looked like a long sweater, soft and emphasizing her figure without clinging. It was a pale mauve-gray for three-quarters of the way down, and the bottom quarter was a dark purple. Over the dress she wore a lightweight trench-coat in the same dark purple. Tantalizingly, the jacket swung open and closed as she walked, revealing, then concealing the dress that flowed lovingly over her curves. The outfit was conservative, but it was unbelievably tempting, as well.

Her hair, which Cutter had seen only up in a tight knot on her head before, was now down and loose, falling in buoyant waves to her shoulders. It made her look younger and more approachable. Face it, he told himself: it made her look sexier than hell.

For the thousandth time Cutter wondered about the missing husband. What was he doing working down in San Cristóbal with a wife like that at home? For all his angry gibes about the man being anxious to get away from her, Cutter found it hard to understand. Sure, Leslie Harper made him feel like tearing his hair out, but if this guy had married her he must have felt differently. Also, Cutter imagined, with someone she loved, Leslie lost the icy exterior and revealed the soft woman beneath. And she must love the guy. She was willing to pay a lot of money to get him back. More than that, she was risking her own neck. Cutter tried to imagine any of the women he knew being willing to do that. There wasn’t one he thought would risk it, except Mary—but then, her heart was given elsewhere.

He wondered what Leslie was like with someone she loved. Did the coolly perfect lines of her face melt into warm beauty? Did she smile and speak softly? Did she come eagerly into your arms?

Cutter shook himself mentally. There was no point speculating on what Leslie Harper was like with a man she loved. He certainly would never be in that position. He knew what she was like with a man she despised, however—and he didn’t like it. She was a spoiled rich girl, and to her Cutter was merely a servant, someone she didn’t think of as a person.

She was out of his league. She was married. He didn’t even like her. The crazy thing was, his body had a way of responding even when his brain told him she was poison. And now, as she walked toward him in an unmistakably feminine way, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her body wrapped in a soft dress that hugged her breasts, his body wanted her.

He wanted to rise and go to her. Perversely, he forced himself to sit still and make her come to him, not standing even for a moment after she had reached his chair and stopped. Cutter was determined he wouldn’t let her turn him to putty just because her body lured him.

“Hello, Cutter.” Leslie was certain he had seen her coming from a long distance and had ignored her completely. But she kept the irritation from creeping into her voice. On the plane trip from New York, she had decided to be more pleasant to Cutter. After all, they would be together almost constantly for several days, maybe even weeks, and the situation would be almost unbearable if they were at each other’s throats all the time. She was determined to be friendly, no matter how provoking he was.

Cutter looked up, then stood slowly, his eyes taking in each part of her body as he rose. “Mrs. Harper.”

“My plane was late getting in. I’m sorry,” she apologized, adding, “And I see that there’s been some mistake about the seating. Perhaps I should go to the ticket counter. I meant for us to fly first-class.” Leslie immediately wished she hadn’t brought up the matter. Cutter would doubtless take it as a criticism.

To her surprise, Cutter grinned. “Hate to tell you, lady, but on the planes to La Luz, there is no first class.”

“Oh.” The airplane must be small. Leslie hoped she wouldn’t get queasy. She hadn’t been on a plane smaller than the usual commercial jet except once, when a friend had taken her up in his Piper. It had made her feel quite nauseated. That would be the ultimate humiliation—to get motion sick with Cutter beside her. He already thought her utterly useless.

“Sorry you won’t get to ride in your usual style,” Cutter jabbed.

“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Here they were, already sniping at each other, after her plans to avoid exactly that.

Cutter picked up his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

“All right.”

“It’s down this way.” He started off at a rapid pace, and Leslie had to hurry to keep up with him. They passed through the security gate and down a seemingly endless hall until at last they came to a semicircular array of gates, all scheduled for flights to Mexico and Central and South America. They sat down together, still silent, but soon Cutter got up and began to wander aimlessly around the large room. Leslie watched him covertly. He looked like a wild animal pacing his cage, she thought, moving in his lean, loose-limbed way. He was powerful, like a jungle cat—and no doubt as protective of his freedom.

She shook the image from her mind. She wasn’t usually so fanciful in her thoughts. Cutter was no wildcat. He was just a man, and she was used to handling men. He would be no exception. She was determined about that.

When their flight was called, Cutter returned and scooped up his bag. He led the way down the hall onto the airplane and stowed Leslie’s carry-on bag in the overhead bin with his own duffel bag. Leslie glanced around the plane. It was indeed smaller than the kind she was used to flying in, having only five seats across, three on one side of the aisle and two on the other. But at least it wasn’t as small as she had feared.

Their tickets were together on the two-seat side of the aisle, so they were forced into a kind of intimacy. Leslie did her best to ignore Cutter, but it was difficult when his large masculine body filled the seat next to her, his arm lying less than an inch from hers on the chair arm, his shoulders spreading into her space and his long leg angling toward hers in search of room. Leslie wet her lips. She would have to try again to establish rapport. They couldn’t continue in this silent, antagonistic way or the entire trip would be miserable.

Leslie turned to him and began, “Tell me, Cutter, have you decided what route we’ll take?”

“Yeah.”

She waited a second for him to continue. When he didn’t she took a steadying breath, “Could you explain it to me?”

“I don’t have a map. It’s in my bag.”

“Here.” Leslie got her phone out of her handbag and pulled up the map of San Cristóbal that she had marked for easy access. She had studied it often after Blake was kidnapped, though to no purpose, since she had no idea where he was being held.

Cutter zoomed in to focus on the area he wanted, but he let Leslie keep holding the phone and he just leaned in, pointing out the places he talked about. He was very aware of the faint perfume Leslie wore, so subtle it was barely there, yet supremely intoxicating. As she moved her head closer to his to see the map, a few strands of her hair caught on the rough flannel of his shirt and clung. He found himself reluctant to move for fear of dislodging them.

“See this?” He pointed to a spot near the eastern coastline. His voice was peculiarly rough and gravelly. “That’s La Luz. It sits between the two major rivers of San Cristóbal, Rio Miedo and Rio Verde. It’s not quite on the ocean, but it has a good harbor. That’s the capital, the major city and the place where we’ll land.” He moved his finger over a fraction to a spot on the Gulf of Mexico. “That’s Costa Linda, where your husband was abducted. It’s a popular resort, especially among South Americans and some Europeans.”

“Are we going there?”