Page 7 of Cutter’s Lady

Chapter 2

Leslie and Avery were sitting in the corner booth of the Purcell Café when Cutter came in. They looked as foreign there as they had last night Zymchek’s dingy bar. Leslie wore an ivory skirt and sweater, with a silly little 1920s-style hat perched on her sleek hair, and she looked unbelievably good to Cutter. It was the soft clothing, the kind that invited touch, and her dark hair and eyes and pinkened cheeks were vivid against its paleness. She was even lovelier in the light of day. Sunlight through the window picked out the satin gleam of her hair and the perfection of her creamy skin. Her eyes were wide, luminous. She was so beautiful that for an instant Cutter forgot how bad he felt.

Leslie glanced up and saw Cutter standing just inside the door, and her eyes flashed. She glanced pointedly at her watch. Cutter’s throbbing headache came back in full force, and, sighing, he strolled across the linoleum floor to their booth.

Leslie shoved up the sleeves of her sweater almost to her elbows. The pink in her cheeks was as much due to heat as to natural coloring; the skirt and sweater were stifling. When Avery had called about the lead in Texas, she had thrown a couple of suits in a suitcase without paying much attention to what she grabbed. She hadn’t even considered that clothes for January in New York would be far too warm for a south Texas winter. It had to be at least 60 degrees outside and, yet, they had heat going inside every establishment she’d entered. Leslie felt as though she was in a steam bath. The fact that Cutter was thirty minutes late had not improved her mood.

“He’s being purposely rude,” she fumed to Avery as she watched Cutter saunter lazily toward their table.

“Well, I did say ‘how about noon’—perhaps he thought I meant around noonish.”

“He’s doing it to show us how little he needs us. Jacking up the price again.”

“I have to admit he’s got us over a barrel.”

“And doesn’t he know it…” Leslie took a deep breath and tried to rein in her anger.

Cutter stopped beside their table. “Morning, ma’am. Avery.” He dipped the front brim of his hat fractionally in a way that probably passed for greeting in Purcell.

“Good afternoon,” Leslie responded pointedly, regarding him with a jaundiced eye. It was distinctly annoying, she thought, that he looked much better today. He wore faded jeans and a dark plaid flannel shirt, with a short leather bomber jacket and the same scuffed boots and well-worn cowboy hat, but the clothes were clean and suited his lean figure.

Shaved and no longer blurred by alcohol, his face was strong, even handsome, with sharp, clean lines and a determined set to his mouth and chin. His green eyes were as cold and clear as marbles against his tanned skin. Tiny lines radiated outward from their edges, and faint grooves lay at the corners of his mouth, giving his face a look of hard-won experience. He looked exactly the sort she needed for a job like this—cool, whipcord tough and knowing. Leslie just wished he didn’t also look so devastatingly handsome.

Where had that thought come from? The color in her cheeks rose even higher, and Leslie set her jaw in irritation. Why should it matter to her that his hands looked powerful and agile with a sprinkling of black hair across the backs that was intensely masculine. What did she care that his worn jeans clung to the long, muscled expanse of thigh and hugged his lean hips, or that the wide leather belt with its heavy silver buckle drew her eyes to… She swallowed and glanced away.

“Please sit down, Mr. Cutter.” Leslie’s voice was muffled and she exhibited a sudden interest in the green-specked Formica tabletop. She drew a breath, linked her hands together in her lap and forced herself to raise her eyes. This close, she could see that Cutter was pale beneath the tan and that his eyes were a trifle bloodshot. There was certain tightness around his forehead and eyes that hinted at pain behind them. So he did have something of a hangover, after all. It somehow restored her self-confidence.

Cutter tossed his hat down on the seat beside him. His hair was thick and glossy, a rich chestnut brown. It was a bit shaggy around the ears and collar, but that had its own appeal. Leslie forgot what she had been about to say.

“Did you make up your minds whether you want to hire me?” Cutter asked casually, flipping open the plastic-covered menu and perusing it. “The chili here’s pretty good, by the way. But I wouldn’t try a steak. Tough as jerky.”

“Mr. Cutter…” Leslie began, ignoring his digression.

“Just Cutter.”

“Cutter. Avery and I talked it over last night at some length. Despite the rather… unsavory appearance you presented, Avery was convinced of your merits regarding this particular job. Frankly, I was against you at the beginning, and I still have some doubts.”

“Oh, really?” He gave her a look of wide-eyed innocence.

Her finely cut nostrils tightened for an instant, but she responded calmly, “Yes, really. It’s hardly reassuring to entrust someone’s life to a man you found blind drunk in a cheap bar.”

“Oh, I wasn’t quite blind drunk. I saw you, all right.” He grinned and his eyes drifted pointedly down her body, lingering on her breasts.

Leslie’s eyes widened. She wasn’t used to such a blatantly sexual attitude. In her business dealings with men she usually wielded too much power for any of them to dare an offensive remark.

Socially she saw few men except well-known, trusted friends, most of them quite a bit older than herself, and there was never a hint of anything sexual with them. The two or three men she had dated since her divorce had been far too well-bred to make the kind of allusion Cutter just had. It startled her so that for a moment she simply stared at him. Then anger boiled up inside her, and she felt a primitive urge to throw something in his face.

“Look, Cutter,” she began, leaning forward a little, shooting her icy gaze straight into his eyes and speaking in a low, razor-sharp voice, “if it weren’t for Blake, I wouldn’t even consider making a deal with you. I suspect you’re an alcoholic and a crook, and I know for a fact that you’re a crude, offensive man. It’s also obvious that you’re a failure.”

Cutter’s pale eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched on the menu.

“Leslie, dear…” Avery interrupted, his voice heavy with warning.

Leslie shot Avery a single flashing glance and turned back to Cutter. “However, I haven’t much choice in this situation. I must get Blake out of San Cristóbal, and Avery assures me that you are the only man around qualified to do it. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars to find Blake and bring him back to the U.S.”

Cutter regarded her steadily. “Lady, I wouldn’t work for you for ten times that. It’s no surprise to me that your husband took a job in some godforsaken place like San Cristóbal. I’m surprised he didn’t go as far as Australia.”

“Now, hold on a second, Cutter!” Avery snapped. “I cannot allow you to insult Ms. Harper.”