Cutter's Lady

by Candace Camp

  He opened his eyes again, his stare dark and full of fire. “Ride me,” he told her, his hands going to her hips to position her over him.

  Leslie slid down, taking him into her. She pulled up and dipped down, and when his fingers dug into her, she began to move rhythmically, her movements quickening as her passion hurled her onward, taking them ever higher. Cutter began to move in counterpoint, thrusting up with his strength, increasing the delicious friction until Leslie’s heart thundered inside her. A bright, hot knot formed deep within her and grew until at last it burst outward, sweeping through her. Cutter shuddered, and for an instant they were melded together, glowing and weightless, sheltered from the rest of the world.

  Leslie went limp, and Cutter wrapped his arms around her, clasping her tightly to his damp, heaving chest. He buried his lips in her hair. Leslie knew then that they could never be completely separate from each other again. Something of her was now a part of Cutter, and she had taken into herself some piece of him.

  After a time she started to move, but Cutter’s arms tightened around her, and she settled back contentedly against his chest. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Leslie grinned, idly curling a few of his chest hairs around her finger. “My pleasure.”

  “I’ve wanted this since I first met you. That night in Zymchek’s Bar I kept wondering how it would feel to kiss someone as beautiful, as special as you. I kept wondering how you looked without any clothes. How you’d feel beneath me.” He was silent for a moment. “But I kept fighting it all the way. Weird, how you run from what you want most.”

  “You think that’s why we’ve fought?” Leslie asked doubtfully.

  “I guess. It’s so strong that it has to come out some way, if not in passion, then in battle.”

  “Interesting theory.” Leslie brushed a kiss across his skin. “I would have said we couldn’t get along together except in bed.”

  “As long as you’re in my bed, I suspect we’ll get along just fine out of it, too.” He chuckled. “Hell, I plan to take up so much energy with you that we won’t have any left to quarrel.”

  Leslie smiled, but there was a curious hint of sadness deep inside her. She pushed it away. She wouldn’t let her reason intrude on the beauty of this time with Cutter. For once, her emotions were going to hold sway. Cutter got out of bed and crossed to the bag where he had been keeping all their trash for the duration of the trip. He threw the condom away in it. “I’ve really got to throw this away somewhere in the camp today.” He shook his head.

  Leslie let out a laugh that turned into a yawn. Cutter got back in bed and she cuddled up to him sleepily. “I have a question.”

  “What?”

  “What’s your first name?”

  His chest moved beneath her in silent laughter. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I would. Come on, tell me.”

  “No way. It’d spoil a beautiful relationship.”

  “Cutter…”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Leslie rose up on her elbows, crossing her arms on his chest. “I have ways of making you talk.” She raised an eyebrow saucily.

  “Never.” She nibbled at his earlobe, and he groaned comically. “Stop.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Convince me.” Her tongue teased around his ear. “You’re very persuasive,” he breathed.

  “Try this.” She moved to his other ear.

  “Promise you won’t run if I tell you?” Cutter asked.

  “I promise.”

  “And you won’t laugh.”

  “Hmmm…” Leslie pretended to give it some deep thought and Cutter laughed. “I promise.”

  He hesitated for a moment. Then he moved swiftly, flipping Leslie over onto her back and pulling her under him. “Some other time.” He kissed her until she was breathless, and what she had asked him no longer seemed very important. She curled her arms around his neck and returned his kiss.

  There was a scraping sound across the room, and someone cleared his throat. “Perdóname.”

  Cutter whirled around. Leslie blushed up to her hairline. Velasquez stood in the doorway, bathed in sunlight. Cutter moved in front of Leslie, flipping up the bedroll to cover her. Leslie clutched it to her and closed her eyes. Cutter and the other man exchanged a few sentences in Spanish, and Velasquez left the room.

  Cutter turned back to Leslie and stroked a hand down her hair. “Get up. We need to dress and get ready to move. Mora’s here, and he wants to see us.”

  ***

  They washed and dressed hurriedly, and Cutter rolled up their sleeping bags into a bundle. Leslie picked up her boots to pull them on, but Cutter stopped her. He took the boots from her and turned them upside down and shook them. Leslie gave him a puzzled look.

  “Checking for scorpions,” he explained.

  “Any reason you didn’t do that after the first night in the jungle?” Leslie asked teasingly.

  “I didn’t think about it?” Cutter shrugged.

  “Yeah, or maybe I’m just worth more to you now that you know how good I am in bed.” Leslie supplied, pretending to pout.

  “That’s definitely a factor.” Cutter grinned and swept her up in a kiss.

  “I thought we were hurrying.” Leslie said breathlessly when he pulled back.

  “That is hurrying. I’d like to throw you back down on the bed.” Cutter handed her boots back to her, and she put them on while he went through the same routine with his boots. They stepped out of the hut into the bright early morning sunlight, where Velasquez waited patiently. He had no rifle this morning, and as they walked along the wide dirt median through the center of the village, he strolled companionably beside Cutter, chatting. Leslie was relieved; his attitude must mean that Mora had acknowledged Cutter as his friend. Still, her stomach was faintly apprehensive as they stopped in front of one of the huts and Velasquez left them and went inside alone.

  Cutter linked one hand with hers and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s okay. Velasquez says Mora was happy to learn I was here.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Don’t worry. And you won’t have to keep up the subservient-woman act around Mora. He’s always had a soft spot for powerful women.”

  Velasquez stepped out of the house and motioned for them to enter. Leslie edged inside after Cutter. Now that she was almost face to face with Blake’s abductors, her stomach was a mass of nerves. She was eager, excited and also undeniably scared. It was a good thing that Cutter would be doing the talking; she was way too jittery to be any good in a negotiation right now. She stood a little behind Cutter, sheltered by his warm bulk, and looked around the room. Four men, all dressed in green uniforms, sat cross-legged on the floor. A fifth man stood beside a small window at the back of the room, his arm crossed over his chest. He watched Leslie and Cutter, his eyes cold and cautious. Leslie assumed he was a guard.

  One of the seated men rose, extending both hands to Cutter, and his face lighted in a smile. “It is you!” he exclaimed, his voice thickly accented. “When they said your name was Cutter, I couldn’t believe it. It has been many years, no?”

  “Yes, it has been.” The two men grasped each other’s arms, then stepped forward into a hug, slapping each other heartily on the back.

  Leslie studied the man who embraced Cutter. He was a bit shorter than Cutter and stockier, with a well-muscled body. His hair was thick and black, neither long nor short, and his black beard was neatly trimmed. His dark eyes were intense, with the compelling fire of a born leader. He and Cutter separated, and the man’s eyes flickered over Leslie. He cast a questioning look at Cutter.

  “Vicente, this is Leslie Harper. Leslie, this is General Vicente Mora.”

  “Señorita.” Mora smiled and executed a little half bow.

  “General Mora.”

  “How lovely you are. Far too lovely for this old dog.” Mora cast Cutter a laughing glance. Leslie smiled uncertainly. “Come. Come. Sit down, my friends.”

  Mora turne
d and spoke to the other men. The three on the floor nodded and left the room. Only the man at the window hung back, protesting. Mora shook his head and barked out a firm command. With obvious reluctance, the man followed the others out of the house.

  Mora sighed and waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal toward the door. “Worried little old ladies, that is what I’m surrounded by. They think everybody’s out to kill me.”

  “Not me,” Cutter responded, settling down onto the floor. Leslie sat beside him, curling her legs up under her.

  “Of course not. I know that. But they don’t know you as I do.” Mora sat down lithely across from them. “Now, what has brought you here?”

  “A man was kidnapped a few weeks ago in Costa Linda. Your army and several other groups claimed responsibility for it. He is an American working in San Cristóbal; his name is Blake Westfield. He is a relative of Leslie’s, and she is very anxious to get him back. She is quite willing to pay whatever is necessary to obtain his release.”

  Mora frowned and reached inside his shirt pocket to pull out a cigar. “Blake Westfield…” He offered a cigar to Cutter, but Cutter shook his head. His nicotine craving was less strong than it had been a couple of days ago and there was no need to reawaken it. “I remember this man. Very odd.” He went through the ritual of lighting his cigar.

  Leslie tensed and looked at Cutter. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He waited politely until the other man puffed the cigar to life, then said, “Odd? What do you mean?”

  “It was not us. We didn’t even have people in Costa Linda at the time—at least, no one capable of kidnapping anyone. Some fool in La Luz decided we should claim it because all the others were. But we knew nothing about it.”

  Leslie slumped, the anticipation running out of her. After all they’d gone through, to come up to a dead end like this… it was too terrible to think about. Cutter glanced at her, then back at Mora.

  “Then it’s the NLF.”

  “No. That is what is odd.” Mora shrugged. “I don’t know who it is.”

  “What?”

  “Those other organizations that claimed it, they are nothing. They couldn’t manage a kidnapping. I am sure of that. But the NLF doesn’t have him. I would have heard; we have spies in Mendez’s camp. They know as little about it as we do.”

  Cutter stared. “You’re sure? None of those groups took him?”

  “No. Very strange. You see?”

  “Surely it couldn’t have been Robles’s men,” Cutter mused.

  “Who?” In all of Leslie’s communications with the San Cristóbalian government she had never heard the name before.

  “The group in the south that I told you about.”

  “Why couldn’t it be them?” Leslie pressed.

  “Kidnap a Yanqui imperialist?” Mora scoffed. “Never. They exist on U.S. support. They wouldn’t endanger that.”

  “But I thought the U.S. supported the present government,” Leslie put in, confused.

  Mora waggled his hand. “It’s possible to keep a foot in both camps. Robles couldn’t hope to gain anything by such a gesture.”

  “Then who has him?” Cutter asked.

  Again Mora shrugged. “Who would benefit by it?”

  “That’s just it. No one’s asked for a ransom.“

  “That would remove the gangs in La Luz. But there are others who would benefit without any money. From the publicity.”

  “But if it wasn’t any of you four who…” Cutter trailed off, and he and Mora stared at each other for a moment. Finally Cutter said softly, “The government?”

  Mora nodded. “Who else?”

  “The government?” Leslie repeated, dumbfounded. “You mean you think the government kidnapped Blake?”

  Cutter nodded. “That’s what he’s saying.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. Why would the government kidnap him?”

  “Bad publicity for the rebels,” Cutter explained. “It puts the U.S. more firmly in the government’s corner than ever and makes it more set against the revolutionaries. That’s very important, especially if they’ve detected any weakening in U.S. support.” He paused, thinking. “It explains why no ransom was asked for.”

  “Why?”

  “If they started negotiating, it would come out that the kidnappers weren’t operating for any guerrilla organization. The various groups might want the credit for the action, but they wouldn’t like the idea of someone else getting the money in their name. They’d let it be known that they hadn’t done it.”

  Mora nodded. Leslie looked from one man to the other. “But that’s insane. The government?”

  “You think too much like an American,” Cutter told her. “We’re talking about a country where citizens spy on each other, where the real rulers of the army and the government are the secret police, where you can get arrested and thrown into jail with no reason given, no charges, no trial.”

  “It’s so awful.” Leslie swallowed. “To think that they would do that to a person—cause him and his family so much anguish—just to make the rebels look bad.” She gazed down at the dirt floor for a moment, then said, “What does it mean for Blake? Will they release him?”

  Cutter glanced at her, then away. “If the government took him, I wouldn’t think it looks good. If they release him and he’s able to identify them, their whole scheme could backfire. They can’t afford that.”

  “You’re saying they’ll probably kill him.”

  Cutter’s eyes came back to her, and Leslie saw compassion and regret in them. “I’m afraid they already have.”

  Tears sprang into Leslie’s eyes, and her mouth quivered. She looked down. “Poor Blake. I wish—why did he have to come here!” She stood up abruptly and strode across the room. “Damn it!”

  She slammed the door open and stepped outside. She’d forgotten momentarily about Mora’s guards, but as they firmed their stances and looked at her with suspicion, she was struck through with fear. Luckily Mora came out, holding up his hand in a halt gesture, and went over to the guard he’d had the most trouble getting to leave earlier. They called out to the other men and they backed up a few paces, giving her space to move around.

  Cutter followed Leslie to a nearby patch of trees on the other side of the house. He was awkward and unsure what to do, yet he felt compelled to comfort her. He laid a gentle hand on her hair, and she leaned back against him gratefully. He curled his arm around her waist, holding her to him and wrapping her with his warmth and strength. “I’m sorry, darlin’,” he murmured. “I wish it hadn’t turned out this way.”

  Leslie rubbed her cheek against his shirt. It was so soothing to rest against Cutter, to be supported by him and to hear the tenderness in his voice. Leslie turned in his arms, and he held her for a long moment. Finally she stepped back and looked up at him.

  “I have to make sure. I can’t abandon Blake if there’s a possibility he might be alive. I can’t let his mother and sister go on living with this doubt. If the San Cristóbal government really is responsible for it, I want to prove it. I want to make sure the U.S. and the world know about it.”

  Cutter frowned. “But darlin’…”

  “Please. Please help me. If we could locate the men who kidnapped him, maybe we could find Blake’s—” Leslie took a steadying breath. “The body—or at least discover whether they worked for the government.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “I know. But I have to try. Please, help me.”

  Cutter didn’t want to do it. It would be difficult and probably fruitless, and quite frankly, he didn’t give a damn about what had happened to Blake Westfield. But he couldn’t refuse the look in Leslie’s eyes. “All right. We’ll go to Costa Linda and see if we can track down his kidnappers.”

  Leslie smiled. “Thank you.”

  In that moment neither Mora nor the rest of the world existed for Cutter.

  After Leslie had gathered herself, Mora insisted that they eat a breakfast of flat corn tortillas and
beans with him. As they ate, he and Cutter reminisced, recalling old friends and incidents long past. Mora asked after Sister Mary Margaret, and Cutter told him about the mission.

  “I have heard it is doing well,” Mora agreed, nodding his head. “She is a very unusual woman. A little like Teresa, yes? But without her fire.”

  Cutter smiled. “Perhaps. I’d never thought of her that way.”

  “She is strong. A fighter.” Mora looked over at Leslie and grinned. “Like the señorita here. I see Teresa’s fire in her. Am I right?”

  “Well, we argue, that’s for sure.”

  Mora laughed. “Ah, now that is like Teresa.”

  Jealousy pierced Leslie at their mentions of Teresa. Teresa had known all the pleasures of Cutter’s body that Leslie had experienced last night. But she had had far more of Cutter than Leslie ever would—she had known his love, as well as his passion. It was crazy to be jealous of a dead woman, Leslie told herself, yet she couldn’t quite suppress the dark feeling.

  Mora and Cutter lapsed into Spanish, and Leslie was lulled by their deep voices and the melodic language. She covered a yawn, realizing suddenly how sleepy she was. The excitement of meeting Mora, then the disappointment of finding that Blake was not with the guerrillas—and was, in all likelihood, already gone—had drained her of energy. She hadn’t got much sleep last night, either… she smiled a little at the thought.

  There was a sudden, piercing whine outside followed by a loud crash, and the earth trembled beneath them. Leslie raised her head, puzzled, and looked at the men. Mora and Cutter were already on their feet and running to the door. There was another crash. Just as they reached the door, Mora’s guard flew into the room, a rifle in his hand. “Militar!” he shouted.