by Ann Major
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“Cutter, do you know anybody named Jose?”
She was too busy tearing into the tissue to notice that Cutter’s shocked silence expanded to fill one second, then two.
Dying flowers exploded out of Cutter’s arms as he lunged toward her.
“Darling, don’t—”
He was too late.
She had already seen the three horrifying photographs.
When she gasped, Jeremy grabbed the pictures and stared, his young dark face draining of color.
As if drawn by a hypnotic force, Cheyenne stared at the pictures again.
Then her thin screams pierced the silence.
Next she staggered backward, her hands clutching her throat, as she gulped deep shuddering breaths and fought nausea.
She couldn’t stop gasping and panting. It was as if someone were holding a hand over her face and she could get no oxygen. Her arms began to tingle. Her hands went numb.
Bile bubbled up her throat.
After she threw up, she burst into tears.
Her feet and legs were going numb now.
Cutter grabbed her. “Take deep, regular breaths!”
But she was too hysterical to listen to him.
“You knew,” she whispered. “You knew. All the time you knew.”
“No.”
His concerned face blurred dizzily and then was lost in darkness.
She couldn’t feel any part of her body now.
As she stumbled forward, collapsing into Cutter’s strong waiting arms, she thought she was dying.
But she only fainted.
Eight
There was a faint sound at the bedroom door as Cutter flipped a magazine page noiselessly.
Cheyenne sat up in bed, as alert as a cat, her heart beating nervously as if she sensed danger, yet, without knowing what had awakened her.
The bedroom was quiet. Normal. The sun was shining through the dazzlingly clean windowpanes of Cutter’s beach house.
Outside a dozen gulls soared and dived, making lazy circles against a hazy blue sky. Beyond the dunes the Gulf was serene; the surf no more than a gleaming curl licking buff-colored sand.
Cutter was sprawled in the overstuffed blue chair next to her bed. His long lean body looked very relaxed in his faded jeans, blue cowboy shirt, boots and huge silver belt buckle. He was reading a business magazine, as if he were a normal, concerned Texas husband whose wife was ill with a simple stomach virus, as if theirs was a normal, loving marriage.
For a minute or two, the inviting beauty of the scene and the comfort of his presence made her feel completely disoriented. Then she saw his black pistol on the table between them, and the horrible memory of the pictures of Kurt’s dead body came back to her.
Suddenly she felt like a stranger in her own life.
“Kurt’s eyes were bulging open,” she whispered in a ragged, torn voice as if he hadn’t seen the photographs, too.
“Honey, Kurt was one of them.”
“His awful eyes were just staring, not seeing—” Her voice was low and hoarse. It hurt her throat to speak.
“Don’t think about it,” Cutter said simply, calmly, snapping his magazine shut and tossing it on the table beside his gun. “All that matters is that you’re feeling better.”
Who was this man she had married? That he could be so coldly unmoved by such a monstrosity? As if it were an ordinary event to him.
Martin had told her often enough that Cutter was considered lethal and cold when it came to business, that he had added to his family’s immense fortune and made money all over the world. That he had worked in the darkest parts of Africa and South America as well as war-torn lands in the Orient. That no one who operated on his international scale was tougher.
What had Cutter had to do to succeed on such megalevels? Had he killed? Would he?
Virile and male, his ambition and determination were etched in his harsh features for anyone to see. The arrogant thrust of his jaw and chin accented the cynical lines carved on either side of his hard, insolent mouth. His shoulders were broader than the big blue plush chair he sat in, so that in her present mood he seemed both terrifyingly powerful and dangerously ruthless.
She had never known anyone like him. He’d gotten a trifle edgy this past week, but he hadn’t acted shaken or shown fear the way she would have. The way Martin had. There was a dark, forceful side to Cutter, an icy control at his core that terrified her.
All week he had expected something like this. But he’d kept silent and hidden his emotions and thoughts behind a stonelike mask.
Now she knew why he hadn’t let her out of his sight. Why he had brought her to a remote island instead of Westville.
She tilted her chin defiantly. “Where’s Jeremy? How is he?” she asked, her tone rebellious.
“Fine.”
How could he sound so cool?
“Fine? What does that mean? Is he upset? Of course, he’s upset—I mean—”
“He’s one tough kid. Sure, he’s worried. We talked about it. He understands the situation. He trusts me to get us out of it.”
“What’s he doing right now? This very minute?”
“He’s in his room playing with his computer. He’s concerned about you.”
“I don’t want him out of this house! Do you understand? Those monsters took him once. They could—” She burst into tears and then fought against her rising panic.
Cutter nodded grimly. “Look, I doubt Jose is going to launch some full-scale assault on my island. He’s made his point. He’ll wait till we relax. Until we’re easier targets.”
Targets?
Cutter’s icy calm was unbelievable.
“So—are you going to tell me who José is?”
“You and Martin owed José Hernando five million dollars. Like most reasonable businessmen, José likes to be paid.”
Most reasonable... “So, José took Jeremy?”
There was a faint sound at the door, but neither she nor Cutter paid any attention to it.
“Not José personally. But he ordered it.”
“But if you paid him the ransom, we should be safe—”
“Yeah. Maybe...we would be if—” Cutter’s quiet tone wasn’t reassuring.
“Maybe? If? What am I hearing?” Trembling, she sat up higher in bed.
He leaned closer, drawing her gaze to his. For a second, the longest second of her life, Cheyenne held her breath. Then he spoke. “But that’s not how it is. We’re in more danger than ever, Cheyenne.”
“Why?” Her soft voice sounded strangely fierce. She was remembering the assault weapons, the tough-looking army, all the rounds of ammunition. Everything he hadn’t trusted her enough to explain. Everything she hadn’t dared to ask about.
“I didn’t pay the ransom.” His tone was low and deep, as before, and yet different. The light in his eyes had died; they were cold and utterly blank. “That’s why José sent us those pictures. To warn us.”
“That we’re next?”
Cutter nodded.
Some part of her had known all along.
Her voice softened ominously. “This is all your fault. If you’d just done what he said—”
“Hey, sorry—” All goodwill vanished from his voice. “I play by my own rules. Not some gangster’s. José took my son. So, I took his daughter.”
Cheyenne’s heart began to beat very fast. “You what?”
“I let her go when we got Jeremy.”
“Why couldn’t you just pay him?”
“Because, my naive innocent, he would have killed Jeremy for sure.”
“You couldn’t possibly know that.”
“Yeah, well, you can have those illusions because you haven’t had to live like I have. I’ve dealt with bastards like him before. Too many times. I paid a ransom. Once. Do you want to know what happened? First, I lost my money. As if I gave a damn for the pittance those starving wretches demanded. But I did give a damn when they threw
the decomposed body of my young executive onto my front lawn with a bullet between his eyes. Jorge wasn’t much more than a boy, but he’d seen his kidnappers’ faces. They were afraid he’d put them behind bars.” Beneath Cutter’s cool voice and stony expression, she felt the violence in him beating its way to the surface. “They didn’t get off so easy. Jorge had been like a brother to me. The kind of brother I never had. I handpicked some professionals. We hunted his killers down—one by one—It took me six months to track their leader.”
“What happened then?”
Cutter’s face darkened. His black eyes glittered. “I never lost another man in that country.”
Sensing the terrible deep pain beneath his hardness, she felt a strange pull from him, a crazy wish to forget her own anger and comfort him.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” she persisted obstinately.
“Because I knew you’d panic. Just like you’re doing now.”
She sat up higher. “Don’t speak to me like I’m a firstgrader. Of course, I’m panicking. A stranger sends me pictures of my bodyguard’s corpse—”
Her prim reprimands infuriated him. “Some bodyguard. You’re lucky Kurt didn’t slit your throat while you slept. We’re lucky José took him out.”
Lucky—“You deliberately put us in danger.”
Cutter’s lips thinned. “Hey, you and Martin borrowed the money, sweetheart. From a very dangerous man. You didn’t pay it back. I’m just picking up the pieces.”
“Well, you’re doing a lousy job.”
“Jeremy is still alive. So are you. Where would you be if I hadn’t come the night you called?”
“What does that matter, if we have to hide out? If José is going to kill us anyway?”
“Damn it, Cheyenne!” Cutter exploded out of his chair, knocking over the flimsy bedside table. His pistol, the brass-shaded lamp and his magazine crashed onto the floor. “Can’t you, just once, show a little faith in me?”
Before she could cringe away from him, he sank down on the bed beside her. His long fingers clamped around her wrists, drawing her closer. The inarticulate sound he made under his breath was pure rage. “I want to get something real straight, honey. Jeremy’s kidnapping, Kurt’s death—this whole business—isn’t my fault!”
In the thundering aftermath of his absolute silence, she felt his fingers bruising the soft skin at the sides of her wrists as his grip tightened.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered.
Without a word, he yanked his hands free of her as if in disgust and straightened wearily.
Slowly he leaned down and picked up his gun. His lean, muscular body was rigid with tension as he reined in his emotions. Ignoring her, he handled his revolver expertly, checking it, spinning the cylinder, dusting off the broken light-bulb fragments. When he set it down again, she saw that his hand was shaking, as hers was. Then his muscles tightened, and he regained control.
Even before he spoke in that quiet and yet menacing tone, she realized he was still furious. “Maybe you and Martin were right for each other after all. The one thing I could always count on from my family, especially Martin, was that they would always think the worst of me. I grew up with that. Martin was the extroverted son my parents longed for and loved—their golden, fun-loving boy—so, I turned to books and math and business where I excelled. I worked very, very hard to prove myself to them. I learned to be outgoing. But my parents didn’t care. They just wanted me to help Martin, to take care of Martin. Martin resented my talents. None of them ever realized or cared about what I wanted. They said I was like my moneygrabbing grandfather who put us all on easy street but was vulgar and hard and treated us harshly. My first wife was just like them. It didn’t take me long to figure out all she thought I was good for was to make money. I decided maybe she was right. I paid her off and got rid of her. I gave up on love after that and paid attention to business. Until I met you.”
His tormented gaze never left her face.
“Cutter—”
“Damn it. I tried to forget you, but you ate at me all those years you were married to Martin. I used to see families in cars or restaurants. There’d be a man and a woman and a little girl and boy. Children. A family. I hungered for a family like that. I would think of you and Martin—God, I envied him so much. I don’t know what kept me sane.” He paused. “When Martin died and I learned José was after you, I thought I couldn’t bear losing you again. Not if there was even the slightest chance that we could be—” His voice broke. “But, I swear, if it wasn’t for Jeremy, I’d walk out of this room right now and never come back!”
He’d given up on love. Until her.
He’d thought he couldn’t bear losing her—
He’d wanted a family. A normal family.
Her heart hammered; her throat went dry.
His speech had jolted her. Still, she resisted believing in him. How could she let her foolish emotions overrule her intellect?
He stared at her, his breathing ragged. Tension, thick and hot and silent, hung like a pall between them. “You think I’m some kind of monster like José.” His voice was chillingly silken.
“No—I—I—”
Before she could adequately deny his accusation, their bedroom door swung open. Jeremy, who’d obviously been eavesdropping, burst inside and ran to her. “Mom, I’m glad Da—I mean Uncle Cutter saved me. He’s going to shoot Baldy and that José guy, and we’ll all be okay. You’ll see.”
“That’s right, son,” Cutter said coldly.
Jeremy beamed.
“You two have obviously discussed this,” she whispered. Tensely she turned to Cutter. “So, how are you going to work this miracle? I want specifics. What exactly are you going to do?”
Cutter’s icy gaze froze her. “Whatever I have to.”
Whatever unspeakable horror that meant.
“Dear God—” She turned away.
“Don’t be so mean, Mom! Uncle Cutter’s not the bad guy!”
Jeremy leapt from the bed and moved closer to Cutter. He took his father’s hand and held on to it.
She was amazed that Jeremy, who had been kidnapped by these monsters, could be taking this so calmly. Clearly Cutter had brainwashed him.
Never had father and son looked more alike than they did in that moment as their perceptive black eyes warily studied her as if her being female made her an alien species. Their grim smiles vanished at precisely the same moment. They looked away from her and nodded at each other, at precisely the same moment as if there was a soul-to-soul, utterly male, genetic understanding between them.
For an instant she felt ganged up upon. It was as if they were on one wavelength and she another.
“Dear God.” She buried her face in her hands. “What’s happening? I—I should never, never have married you! I don’t want Jeremy to grow up and be hard and cold like you!”
“Hey—I stuck my neck into the noose for you,” Cutter said. “Show a little gratitude.”
“Gratitude?”
“Yeah, Mom. He means quit being so mean to him.”
“Mean? Oh—” She buried her face in her pillow.
The last thing she heard before the door closed behind them was Jeremy’s piping voice.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Cutter. She never sulks very long.”
“I’m not sulking!” she screamed. “It’s perfectly normal to be upset—”
She wadded up her pillow and threw it at the closed door.
Jeremy’s defection to Cutter was unendurable.
All his life Jeremy had longed for a father. Martin had belittled him for being so quiet and smart. The few crumbs of affection Martin had tossed Jeremy had been done mainly to spite her.
Now, for the first time Jeremy shared an instinctive closeness to a man he admired—his biological father. Cutter had been unfailingly kind and attentive.
Every night he went into his son’s room where they read and talked, where Jeremy asked him endless questions. All of which Cutter,
who had told her he’d been a tiresomely curious child, patiently tried to answer. Cutter had told her that his childhood had been lonely and unhappy, that Martin had been the favorite, and that he had escaped first into books, then his studies, and later his businesses.
Father and son loved each other. They understood each other.
Cutter loved Jeremy and wanted to make him part of his life.
Just as she did
As a child she had longed for her own father. Every time she had competed against and bested Chantal, it had been to win her father’s love and respect. Whenever Ben had shown up at a school function, she had dreamed of him praising her and inviting her home to his big ranch house where he had lived. She had imagined him making Chantal accept her. Only Ben West had never claimed her; he’d witnessed all her pitiful attempts to win his love as well as her shame. He’d hung his head. But he’d let it continue.
On the other hand, Cutter had come to her when she and Jeremy were in danger. He had risked his life for them.
She thought about what Cutter had said about dreaming of a family. Of having a little girl and a boy.
In spite of the past and all that had gone wrong and was still wrong between them, Cutter and she were becoming a family.
As this knowledge began to glow inside her like a warm fire near her heart, her stubborn, irrational anger toward Cutter began to lessen.
Not that she was anywhere near being ready to open her door and tell him she was sorry.
Nine
The silence from her end of the hall was deafening.
Cutter had spent his life dealing with petty, third-world tyrants. Maybe Cheyenne was sweet. Maybe she was pretty. But she could hold her own with the most difficult despot when it came to being stubborn.
For five hours she had kept her door closed.
For five hours the atmosphere had felt heavy and brooding and made Cutter edgier and edgier.
While Cheyenne kept to her room, Cutter and Jeremy camped in Jeremy’s room. Cutter worked on the computer while Jeremy read with his usual thirst for knowledge.
But they left their door open.