Page 60 of Cutter’s Lady

“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 turned 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?”