Page 69 of Cutter’s Lady

Cutter drove down the wide, palm-tree-lined boulevard on which the elegant hotels lay and into the town of Costa Linda. He turned off the main street and drove a few blocks. The change was startling. Streets became narrow and unpaved; the buildings were flimsy and unkempt. Cutter toured the area, looking around carefully, then drove back to the major avenue and parked the car. “We’ll walk from here,” he explained. “If I parked where we’re going, we might not have a car left when we come out.”

He set out at a brisk pace, and Leslie followed him quickly, sure he wouldn’t wait for her. They walked most of the day and into the evening, stopping at pawn shops, cafes, bars, hotels and apartment buildings. Everywhere they went, Cutter asked questions, usually leaving a bill of money with whomever he talked to, even though none of them professed to have any answers to his questions. By midnight Leslie’s feet were throbbing and her head ached, and she wondered if there was any use in doing this. So far not a soul had responded to Cutter’s inquiries about the kidnapping or to his money.

“Do you think there’s any hope?” She asked as she sank into a chair in yet another dim bar. She was tired of the dirt and the odor and the sneering glances.

Cutter shrugged and lit another cigarette from what Leslie thought must be an endless pack. She wondered if he’d bought an entire carton just to spite her. “I told you it was a long shot. But maybe the money I gave out will work on them, and they’ll wonder how much they could get if they gave me concrete information. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Me, neither.” Leslie felt cold and very lonely sitting across from him like this. There was a wall between them; she was cut off forever from the warmth and sharing that had lain between them for those brief, wonderful days. She wished she had it back. She wished she could have it forever. If she apologized, he might forgive her, might come to her bed again and share her life. Leslie turned her head, feeling the treacherous tears starting.

No. She must not let herself start thinking like that; if they mended their rift, it would be only temporary. As soon as this job was over, Cutter would be out of her life. He’d never stay. They’d never suit each other. Once she was back home, she’d find it easier to get over him. She wouldn’t feel so dry and empty when she was with her friends and in familiar places. It was the strange situation, the forced intimacy that had driven them together. They had nothing in common, and when this trip was over, she would see the gap between them. She would forget Cutter.

She wished she could believe that.

Cutter left their table to talk to the bartender and two other men sitting at the bar. He gave them some money and returned to the table. “Let’s go. We’re through for the night.”

They walked back to their car and drove to the hotel in silence. They went up to their respective doors, feet apart. Leslie felt a pang at watching Cutter open his room, knowing she would not be sharing it with him. She swallowed and turned away, opening her own door.

She stepped inside and fumbled for the light switch. Suddenly the door swung shut behind her, and an arm went around her, jerking her back against a solid body. A rough hand clapped over her mouth. Leslie’s heart jumped in terror, and for an instant she was utterly numb. The overwhelming odor of a man’s cologne filled her nostrils, sickening her. His fingers dug into the flesh around her mouth.

“Forget Blake Westfield,” he whispered in such a low, accent-laced tone that she had trouble understanding the words. “Stop trying to find out what happened to him, or you will be sorry.”

Leslie’s initial rush of fright was followed by an equally strong burst of anger. She swung back hard with one leg, connecting with his shin, and began to struggle. An oath ripped from the man, and he tightened his arm around her, squeezing off most of her air. Leslie clawed and kicked, trying to scream through the barrier of his hand over her mouth.

There was a sharp rap at the door. “Leslie? Are you all right?” It was Cutter’s voice.

Relief surged through Leslie and she tried to call his name. But the hand was an effective muffler, and she was fast losing energy from lack of air. Leslie lashed out with her feet, not back against her assailant but in front, thudding into the wall of the narrow entryway.

“Leslie!” Cutter tried the doorknob. A thud shook the door as he kicked it. It shuddered again and again. “Open up!” he roared, and threw his whole weight against it. Down the hall several doors opened.

Leslie’s attacker pulled her to the door and grasped the doorknob. Suddenly he whipped it open and shoved Leslie out violently, ramming her into Cutter and sending both of them tumbling in a heap on the floor. Her captor jumped nimbly over them and took off down the hall. Cutter unceremoniously pushed Leslie aside and jumped to his feet, running down the hall after the other man.

Leslie sat up, gasping for air. Now that the danger was past, she was weak and quivering from the flood of adrenaline. She wrapped her arms around herself, struggling for calm, or at least the appearance of it. She glanced around her and saw several heads stuck out of doorways up and down the hall, all staring at her in amazement. The man nearest to her started toward her, speaking in Spanish. Leslie shook her head and made a gesture of not understanding. She tried a smile to reassure him that she was all right.

Across the hall a large woman in a nightgown and bathrobe, her short hair in wild disarray, spoke up. “You all right, honey?”

“Yes, yes.” Leslie nodded. It was soothing to hear an American voice, even this woman’s nasal twang. “I’m fine, really.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. There was someone in my room. A thief, I guess. But he didn’t hurt me. He grabbed me and then he ran when Cutter knocked on the door.”

The woman shook her head in disgust. “There’s no place in this country that’s safe. This is the last time we’re coming here for a vacation. Another lady on the tour got her purse snatched yesterday.”

Leslie rose shakily to her feet and leaned against the doorjamb, looking down the hall in the direction in which Cutter had run. Why was he gone so long? Surely he hadn’t been able to catch up with the man. A new fear gnawed at her. What if the man had stopped and turned on Cutter? What if he had hidden and jumped out at him with a knife or a gun?

“Can I help you?” the American went on.

Leslie shook her head. “No. No, thank you. I’m fine really. I’m just worried about my friend.”

“The man who was yelling?”

“Yeah.”

“He probably saved your life. But I sure wouldn’t run after a thief like he did. You never know what somebody like that might do.”

Leslie gritted her teeth. That was just what she needed to hear. With the excitement over, the doors all along the hall were beginning to close. Even the American woman went back inside her room. Leslie waited for an eternity before finally the elevator opened and Cutter stepped out.

His face glistened with sweat, and his chest rose and fell with deep, rapid breaths. His mouth was set in grim lines. He strode toward Leslie. “I couldn’t catch him,” he said in a low, furious voice. “I saw him at a distance in the parking lot, but he got in a car and drove off. I wasn’t even close enough to get the license-plate number.” He reached out and gripped her upper arms, staring down into her face. “Are you all right?”