Cutter's Lady

by Candace Camp

  Cutter’s Lady

  Candace Camp

  .

  Copyright © 1986 by Candace Camp Clutch Books LLC Edition

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places, are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, or events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Cutter’s Lady

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  Even before she met him, Leslie Harper was certain she wouldn’t like him. She knew it as soon as she heard his name. “Cutter?” she had asked Avery, her voice threaded with disbelief. “That’s all? Is that his first name or his last?”

  Avery gave a languid, one-shouldered shrug. “Who knows? That’s all Ashe called him. Cutter.”

  “I don’t like it. There’s something fishy about a man with only one name.”

  Now, standing just inside the door of Harry Zymchek’s bar, Leslie repeated her words. “I don’t like it.”

  She cast an encompassing look around the room. It was as dingy and smoke-filled as any bar in South Texas, which was saying a lot. The tan walls were smudged with dirty handprints and years-old beer stains. The ceiling of faded yellow acoustical tiles was splotched with a huge brown water stain, and a fourth of the tiles were missing. Cigarette burns pocked the Formica bar. A neon light advertising Pearl beer sputtered on the wall amidst the liquor bottles. The opposite wall was lined with green vinyl booths, the seats torn and mended with black electrician’s tape. The rest of the room was cluttered with empty tables and chairs. Cigarette butts dotted the linoleum floor.

  “I suppose this place has never heard of a smoking ban.” Leslie Harper shot a hard look at the slender, well-dressed man beside her. “Really, Avery.”

  He ran one elegant hand over his perfectly coiffed silver hair. “Sweetheart, you don’t find men who know the jungles of San Cristóbal at the Hyatt.”

  “You mean he’s staying here?” Leslie was startled out of her usual cool composure.

  “There’s a motel out back.”

  “Good God.” Leslie felt suddenly unsure—it wasn’t a feeling she was accustomed to. And she didn’t enjoy it. “Do you really think he can help? I mean, it was odd enough that he doesn’t have a cell phone or a permanent address, but anyone who’s reduced to living here—well, I mean, he can’t be very good, can he?”

  “Morally or professionally?”

  “Professionally,” she answered before stopping to think. “Though…I guess I’d have to worry about his ethics, too, if I’m to trust him to find Blake and not make off with the cash.” She sighed.

  “You want to back out?”

  Leslie smoothed down the skirt of her white Chanel suit. Discreet pearls shimmered at her throat and ears. Her dark hair was parted down the middle and pulled back tightly to a knot on her neck. Only someone with classically elegant features could wear her hair that way and succeed. Leslie Harper managed it. She looked crisp and cool, more as if she were at a garden party than standing in Harry Zymchek’s bar in Purcell, Texas.

  “No. I’m not backing out. Let’s meet this guy.”

  Avery cupped her elbow with his hand and guided her across the floor. Every eye in the place followed her progress. The orange-haired woman behind the bar leaned confidentially toward the customer on the bar stool closest to her. “Donna, them shoes cost more than you and I make in a week.” Her estimate was low.

  Only one man in the room paid no attention to the elegant couple crossing the floor, and it was toward him that Avery made his way. He sat in the booth farthest from the door, arms crossed on the table, seriously studying the row of empty shot glasses and squeezed-out lime rinds before him. He was dressed in a nondescript tan shirt, faded jeans and scuffed brown boots. A brown felt cowboy hat with the front brim turned down was pushed far back on his head to reveal thick, tangled brown hair.

  Avery and Leslie paused beside the table, but the man didn’t glance up. Avery cleared his throat. Still there was no response.

  “Mr. Cutter!” Leslie said loud enough to be heard over the music, conversations, and even a jet plane—had one been passing by at the time.

  He raised his head that time. “Yeah?”

  Leslie’s lips thinned with disgust. The man before them hadn’t shaved in days. His fingernails were dirty, his eyes bloodshot, and he reeked of sweat, alcohol and poor decisions.

  “Is your name Cutter?” Avery questioned.

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “This is hopeless. Let’s go home.” Leslie started to turn away, but Avery put a detaining hand on her arm.

  “I am Avery Browning. This is Leslie Harper.”

  The red-rimmed eyes went to Leslie and traveled down her slender figure. He looked back at Avery. “So?”

  “So Ashe Harlan sent us to you.”

  “He obviously made a mistake,” Leslie added bitingly.

  “There’s a job we want done, and Mr. Harlan said you were the man to do it.”

  “Why?” Cutter asked bluntly.

  “Because it’s in San Cristóbal.”

  Cutter glanced again at Leslie. His eyes were an improbable shade of green, pale and icy, even bloodshot as they were, and they went right through her. Leslie experienced an unaccustomed urge to run, and she stiffened her back against it. Leslie Harper never ran from anything.

  The man made a brief gesture at the seat opposite him. “Sit down.”

  Leslie gritted her teeth, but she slid into the booth beside Avery. Avery began to speak. “We have a rather, ah, delicate operation that needs to be done San Cristóbal, Mr. Cutter.”

  “And delicate is so obviously his specialty.” Leslie staged whispered to her companion. Cutter slid his eyes over to her, but he didn’t reply, only stared at her hard enough that she felt the pull to break their eye contact a moment before Cutter returned his attention to Avery.

  “We need someone who knows the back country of that nation.” Avery raised his voice a trifle as he continued his spiel, “the jungles, the mountains.”

  “Guerrilla country,” Cutter said flatly.

  “Yes. Exactly. It’s of the utmost importance—well, that is, we need a certain type of man, one who knows the country and who has, er, dealt with the San Cristóbalians before. One who—”

  “Think you could get to the point?” Cutter broke in. “My head’s not the clearest shape it’s ever been.”

  “Obviously,” Leslie put in. She had been trying so long and so hard to get to this point, and it seemed as if everywhere she turned she had come up against another closed door. Then Avery had gotten this lead, and Leslie’s hopes had soared. For a few days she had thought that at last they’d made a breakthrough. And now, here were all her hopes crumbling again. It had all led to nothing but a drunken bum, and the disappointment was bitter. “In simple language, Mr. Cutter I need to get someone out of San Cristóbal right away.”

  Cutter shrugged. “There’re flights from La Luz to Houston every day.”

  Leslie glared at him. “The person in question was kidnapped three weeks ago by revolutionaries.”

  That caught his attention. Cutter straightened, his eyebrows shooting up, and he began a search of his pockets, at last coming up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He took out a slightly bent cigarette and lit it. “Are you saying y
ou want me to go in there and find him?”

  “And bring him out in one piece.” Leslie waved her hand in front of her face, hoping to clear enough air of his cancerous fumes that she could breathe somewhat.

  He chuckled, showing even white teeth, and emitting a cloud of smoke that smelled almost as strongly of alcohol as it did cigarettes. Leslie pushed further back into the dirty booth. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” Cutter shook his head.

  “I can see that it’s pointless to ask you for anything,” Leslie snapped. “Except, perhaps, for your favorite brand of bottom-shelf tequila.”

  Avery glanced at her in surprise. He’d known Leslie all her life, and it wasn’t like her to be openly hostile to a perfect stranger. She was determined and used to having her own way, of course, and apt to be impatient with incompetence, but she was usually unflappable. It was an indication, he supposed, of just how much this situation had unsettled her. “Leslie,” Avery began, laying a calming hand on her arm. “Since we’re here, we might as well discuss it with Mr. Cutter.”

  “Yes, Leslie, since you’re here.” Cutter exhaled through his nostrils directly in her direction. He reminded Leslie of a bull. Though, that wasn’t really fair—a bull wouldn’t be so purposefully rude.

  “What’s the use? This guy’s so drunk he couldn’t find his way out of this room!”

  His green eyes impaled her. “Lady, even drunk there’s no place in San Cristóbal I can’t find. But if the guerrillas have him, I suggest you simply pay the ransom.”

  “That’s just it! There haven’t been any ransom demands,” Avery explained, leaning forward earnestly. “Blake was kidnapped three weeks ago, the fourteenth of December, right off the streets of Costa Linda.”

  “The resort?”

  “Yes. He was working for an American construction firm there. He’s an engineer. Several passersby saw a dark sedan drive up beside him, and three masked men got out and threw him into the car. Then they took off. The next day four different terrorist groups claimed responsibility. But since then, there hasn’t been a word.”

  Leslie’s dark eyes flamed, and she clenched her fists. “No one’s contacted me or Blake’s company or the newspapers. It’s as if the sedan and everyone in it vanished. The government down there has done nothing. Absolutely nothing! And our state department hasn’t pushed them. They don’t want to offend the San Cristóbal government; they say the political situation there is too ‘precarious.’ Avery’s done some prying for me in Washington, but he hasn’t found out a thing. So I decided I’d have to do it myself.”

  “Yourself?” Cutter repeated. “Do what yourself?”

  “Get him out, of course. Pay the ransom.”

  “Leslie wants to hire someone to find Blake and negotiate with the insurgents. She’ll pay whatever they ask.” Avery paused, then went on, “I put out a few probes about San Cristóbal, and a reporter suggested that I talk to Ashe Harlan. Mr. Harlan told me that if anyone could do it, it was you. He said you’re an expert on San Cristóbal.”

  “I’ve been in and out a few times.”

  “We’re willing to compensate you quite handsomely for the job.”

  “Avery!” Leslie swung toward him, outraged. “We aren’t hiring this… this…”

  “Bum?” Cutter suggested, amusement touching his eyes.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She gave him a curt nod before turning back to Avery. “This bum.”

  “Happy to help.” Cutter ground out his cigarette in an ashtray.

  “Leslie… what choice do we have?”

  “We’ll find someone else. There’s got to be someone else.”

  “Don’t worry, lady.” Cutter’s mouth twisted wryly and he leaned back in his seat, signaling the bartender for another round. “I wouldn’t take the job anyway. It’s hard to compensate someone for getting his head blown off.”

  Leslie gave her companion a glance that clearly said, I told you so. Avery sighed. “Leslie, Mr. Cutter…”

  “It’s just Cutter,” the other man said shortly.

  “Yes, of course. Cutter. Look, both of you are being too hasty. Obviously we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot tonight. I suggest we meet tomorrow and discuss this again, when we’re all feeling better.”

  Leslie sighed. “Come on, Avery, stop playing the diplomat. This isn’t an international treaty.”

  “Leslie, please, for my sake. We’ll have a meal and discuss all this in a more relaxing atmosphere—it’ll be my treat.”

  “Oh, all right. Although I don’t see what purpose it will serve. Well, besides, filling this man’s stomach with something other than booze.”

  Avery turned to Cutter. Cutter raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I suspect it will sound even more insane sober, but I’m not one to turn down free food.”

  “Excellent. What time?”

  “Not too early.”

  “Heaven forbid you rush your morning routine. I can see it must take some time to get your hair just so under that ridiculous cowboy hat.” Leslie eyed the crow’s nest of brown hair she’d been purposefully trying to avoid looking at earlier for fear of appearing rude. That fear had disappeared after a few minutes in Cutter’s company, though. “It’s not as though there’s a ticking clock and a man’s life at stake.”

  “True, I wouldn’t want to delay you too much. I assume you’ll need to move on to San Cristóbal soon and I hear it takes longer to travel by broom than by plane.”

  Leslie opened her mouth to retort, but Avery held up both hands, one facing her and the other facing Carter as if he could physically stop their jibes. “Fantastic. How about noon?”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at Purcell Café.” He gestured leftward with his thumb. “Down the street.”

  “Very good. And tonight you might try thinking about that money.” Avery stepped out of the booth, and Leslie followed him quickly. Avery reached inside his jacket and removed a folded envelope, which he extended to Cutter. “Here’s a note for you from Mr. Harlan. I hope it will help you make up your mind.”

  Frowning, Cutter took the envelope. Leslie and Avery turned to leave, but Cutter’s voice stopped them. “By the way, just out of curiosity, who is this Blake guy to you?”

  “My husband,” Leslie answered crisply.

  Cutter grinned, lending his face a brief, unexpected charm. “He probably figures he’s safer with the guerrillas.”

  ***

  “Terrific.” Leslie flopped into the front seat of the Lexus and leaned her head back against the plush leather headrest. “Now we’re stuck out here until tomorrow. Where do you think we’re going to spend the night in this godforsaken place? I’m not staying in Harry Zymchek’s motel slash bar!”

  “Temper, temper.” Avery smiled. “I think our Mr. Cutter rather got under your skin. Not that that is an altogether bad thing. Most men can barely get a reaction of any kind from you and he is quite good-looking, in a scruffy sort of way.”

  “Scruffy? I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he has a permanent infestation of bed bugs on his person.” Leslie fixed Avery with her hardest look. “And worse than that, he’s a drunk. Which makes him completely unreliable.”

  “Come on, Les, aren’t you being a little hard on the guy? So he’d tied one on tonight—wouldn’t you if you were stuck in Purcell, Texas?”

  “That’s another thing. What is he doing here? Why is the world’s biggest expert on San Cristóbal sitting in a bar in the middle of nowhere? Why doesn’t he have a cell phone or a home?”

  “I gather from what Ashe said that Mr. Cutter’s dealings are somewhat—well, let’s say he likes to remain as untraceable as possible.”

  “Great. What does he do—run guns or smuggle drugs?”

  Avery shrugged and started the car. “I don’t know. But he must have been involved in something pretty unsavory to be that familiar with the wilds of San Cristóbal.”

  Avery glanced over at Leslie. She sat facing straight ahead, presenting him with her classic profile. She was every bit
as stunning as her mother, with the same enormous dark eyes and thick black hair. But the quick mind and sharp tongue, the bulldog determination beneath the lovely exterior—that was all Geoff Harper. She was used to winning, just as Geoff was. Even in a situation where her looks and money didn’t factor in, Leslie’s intelligence always brought her out on top.

  Avery had known Leslie all her life. He had grown up in a traditional and very conservative family and had not come out until after his parents passed away. But by then, he’d been married to his career for so long that even once he started dating, it had been hard finding a man who would tolerate so much time at the office. Avery had always secretly wanted a child and had delighted showering his parental affection on Leslie, the daughter of his closest friend.

  Leslie had been spoiled a little—how could she not be? She was the only child of a very wealthy father who was forever trying to make up for Leslie’s mother. Heather had played the wine connoisseur around Avery, knowing he enjoyed touring vineyards, but she drank so heavily he often wondered if she could even taste the expensive bottles she regularly put away. Then, when Leslie was ten years old, Heather had deserted her family completely. To try to make up for it, Geoff had given Leslie everything money could provide and even a good bit of his precious time.

  Somehow, despite all that, Leslie had managed to grow up into a levelheaded and mature young woman. She had always been bright and far more interested in business dealings than in debutante balls. She had graduated early from Harvard with honors, and most of her social hours had been spent in the company of Geoff Harper and his friends—all bankers, lawyers and corporation executives.

  After graduation, she had started her first boutique hotel not far from where she grew up in Manhattan. Once she’d built it into a success, she’d sold it and begun another hotel near her alma mater in Boston. Now 29, she had recently sold her third hotel in San Francisco for a healthy profit. There was nothing of her mother’s impulsive nature in her—though, she did have Heather’s dry sense of humor. Still, she had no careless streak, and if she did inherit some of her mother’s wildness, Avery suspected that Leslie kept it firmly suppressed.