by Candace Camp
“Sorry you won’t get to ride in your usual style,” Cutter jabbed.
“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Here they were, already sniping at each other, after her plans to avoid exactly that.
Cutter picked up his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Ready to go?”
“All right.”
“It’s down this way.” He started off at a rapid pace, and Leslie had to hurry to keep up with him. They passed through the security gate and down a seemingly endless hall until at last they came to a semicircular array of gates, all scheduled for flights to Mexico and Central and South America. They sat down together, still silent, but soon Cutter got up and began to wander aimlessly around the large room. Leslie watched him covertly. He looked like a wild animal pacing his cage, she thought, moving in his lean, loose-limbed way. He was powerful, like a jungle cat—and no doubt as protective of his freedom.
She shook the image from her mind. She wasn’t usually so fanciful in her thoughts. Cutter was no wildcat. He was just a man, and she was used to handling men. He would be no exception. She was determined about that.
When their flight was called, Cutter returned and scooped up his bag. He led the way down the hall onto the airplane and stowed Leslie’s carry-on bag in the overhead bin with his own duffel bag. Leslie glanced around the plane. It was indeed smaller than the kind she was used to flying in, having only five seats across, three on one side of the aisle and two on the other. But at least it wasn’t as small as she had feared.
Their tickets were together on the two-seat side of the aisle, so they were forced into a kind of intimacy. Leslie did her best to ignore Cutter, but it was difficult when his large masculine body filled the seat next to her, his arm lying less than an inch from hers on the chair arm, his shoulders spreading into her space and his long leg angling toward hers in search of room. Leslie wet her lips. She would have to try again to establish rapport. They couldn’t continue in this silent, antagonistic way or the entire trip would be miserable.
Leslie turned to him and began, “Tell me, Cutter, have you decided what route we’ll take?”
“Yeah.”
She waited a second for him to continue. When he didn’t she took a steadying breath, “Could you explain it to me?”
“I don’t have a map. It’s in my bag.”
“Here.” Leslie got her phone out of her handbag and pulled up the map of San Cristóbal that she had marked for easy access. She had studied it often after Blake was kidnapped, though to no purpose, since she had no idea where he was being held.
Cutter zoomed in to focus on the area he wanted, but he let Leslie keep holding the phone and he just leaned in, pointing out the places he talked about. He was very aware of the faint perfume Leslie wore, so subtle it was barely there, yet supremely intoxicating. As she moved her head closer to his to see the map, a few strands of her hair caught on the rough flannel of his shirt and clung. He found himself reluctant to move for fear of dislodging them.
“See this?” He pointed to a spot near the eastern coastline. His voice was peculiarly rough and gravelly. “That’s La Luz. It sits between the two major rivers of San Cristóbal, Rio Miedo and Rio Verde. It’s not quite on the ocean, but it has a good harbor. That’s the capital, the major city and the place where we’ll land.” He moved his finger over a fraction to a spot on the Gulf of Mexico. “That’s Costa Linda, where your husband was abducted. It’s a popular resort, especially among South Americans and some Europeans.”
“Are we going there?”
“I don’t see any reason to. I wouldn’t think your husband’s still in the area. San Cristóbal doesn’t have urban terrorists. They occupy mostly the wild mountain and jungle region.” He waved his thumb over the mountainous spine of the country, carefully avoiding the screen so he didn’t move the focus of the map. “Avery said three groups claimed responsibility, but one of them is mostly an online organization—a few university students with a website, printing leaflets in a basement, that sort of thing. I can’t see them being either organized or brave enough to pull off something like that. There are only three groups of any real military value. One is a group made up primarily of the members of the previous government who were not killed when the new junta took over.”
“When was that?”
“About two years ago. That group’s headquarters are in the southern jungle. They didn’t claim responsibility for the kidnapping, and it’s not their style, so they’re out. The other two groups have their headquarters in the northern mountainous region. The NLF is somewhat more extremist and violent; I’m hoping they aren’t the ones who have him. The other group is known as the Moristas, after the leader, Vicente Mora. I know him.”
“You know him?” Leslie repeated, her eyes rounding.
“Yeah. We’ve had a few dealings with each other.”
Then she remembered that Avery had said something like that. Cutter had obviously been selling arms to him. Leslie stiffened slightly. “Oh. Of course.”
She looked at him as if he’d turned into a snake, Cutter thought. Because he knew a guerrilla leader? You’d think it would please her for him to be on speaking terms with Mora; it would make getting her husband out much easier.
“Mora’s usually in this area,” he moved the focus area of the map and drew an imaginary circle above a section of mountains and jungle with his finger.
“Don’t you know exactly where?” Leslie asked doubtfully. How was he going to find them if he didn’t even know their location?
“Nobody ever does. It’s the way they stay alive. They’re constantly on the move. If the army locates one of their camps, they bomb it immediately.”
“Oh.” Leslie’s voice was barely above a whisper. The violence frightened her. Somehow it seemed even more horrible being stated in Cutter’s matter-of-fact voice. She glanced at his expressionless face, and resentment flooded her, turning her cheeks pink and her voice scornful. “This is normal to you, isn’t it?”
He returned her gaze steadily. She looked beautiful this way, her face lighted with emotion. This trip was going to turn out to be hellacious in more ways than one if she didn’t back out of it. Purposely he made his voice devoid of sympathy. “Those are the facts of life in San Cristóbal. If you want to run around down there, you’ll have to get used to it. They spend most of their time trying to figure out how to kill each other. The army’s after the guerrillas, the guerrillas are after the army, and all the guerrillas are after each other.”
Leslie stared at him in horror. “I don’t understand. Why?”
“Because it’s the only solution they have to their problems. The wealthy and powerful are trying to preserve what they have; the poor and powerless are trying to better their lot. Fighting’s the only way they know how to do it. There isn’t such a thing as free elections there. There’s little justice. Going to a San Cristóbalian jail is the worst hell a man could be in, so they’d rather die than be arrested; it makes for desperate fighters. And it makes them feel they’re solving the problems that plague them. They can forget for a while that they’re hungry, or that two of their children were born dead and two more have died since, or that they can’t scrabble out enough food to live on their rocky little farms, which they have to tear out of the jungle. To them, fighting makes a man a man, not a captive, even if they never win a damn thing they’re fighting for.”
Cutter leaned back in his chair, moving away from her. He wished he hadn’t said that, afraid that he’d revealed too much about himself. He didn’t want this woman to know him. It was better if she thought he hadn’t a drop of emotion in him.
“So that’s what you do in San Cristóbal,” he finished dryly. “You find a cause and gather a few discontented friends around you, and you start a revolution. That’s why it’s no place for you to go.”
“You’re going.”
“I know something about it.”
“Fighting?” Leslie asked.
“Yes.”
“W
ere you a mercenary?”
He looked at her oddly, then said, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“What would you say?”
“I’d say you’re heading into a mine field and you’d better get out.”
“Still trying to scare me off?” Leslie tilted her head as if studying him. “Now, why, I wonder?”
Cutter clenched his teeth. “For your own good, that’s why.”
After her initial reaction of horror, Leslie had the distinct impression that Cutter was trying to frighten her. He didn’t want her to come, so he was probably making things sound worse than they were. It irritated her that he was that eager to get rid of her. “I didn’t know you were so concerned about my welfare.”
Cutter’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled, not at all pleasantly. “Why, of course I’m concerned about you. Anything happens to you, how’ll I get the other half of my money?”
***
After that, Leslie gave up all attempts at conversation. It was obviously impossible to be friendly with the man. She would have to resign herself to spending a large amount of time with a rude, thoroughly disagreeable person. Well, she could manage it.
They spent the rest of the flight in silence, Cutter flipping through the SkyMall catalog like he cared about any of the useless nonsense inside it and Leslie reading a novel she’d picked up at JFK airport. Even though they were only inches apart, they managed to ignore each other, their only contact happening when the stewardess brought them their drinks. Cutter handed Leslie’s to her, and their hands touched for an instant; she snatched it away as if his fingers had burned hers. She felt stupid immediately. She’d acted as if the touch of his hand in passing meant something. As if it were something to be afraid of.
When they landed at the small La Luz airport, Cutter took down their bags from the overhead compartment and handed Leslie hers, carefully extending it so that it was easy for her to take it without meeting his hand. Leslie felt even more foolish, and she grabbed the bag, purposefully colliding with his hand to show she didn’t care. But he grinned knowingly, spoiling the effect she had hoped to have.
Leslie followed him down the plane steps and across the asphalt to the small concrete box that was the La Luz airport. The place was filled with people, most talking in languages she didn’t know, and she felt overwhelmed by how little she knew about everything in this foreign land. She hadn’t even tried to learn basic phrases in Spanish, which was the most commonly spoken language in the region. Leslie was usually over-prepared for everything. When she had gone to France the summer before she started at Harvard, she had taken a two week crash course in the language so she could easily communicate with the people at hotels and restaurants. She never liked reinforcing the ugly American stereotypes, but she had so little lead time with this trip that she’d barely had a chance to pack, much less find out the finer points of customs and greetings in the region.
She followed Cutter meekly, grateful for the moment to have someone to show her the way. He wound through the crowd to the baggage area, where workers were tossing pieces of luggage onto the long metal rack.
Cutter glanced back at her. “What’s your luggage look like?”
“Brown. Louis Vuitton.”
“What the hell does that mean? What does it look like?”
“There.” She pointed. “The garment bag and the large case.”
Cutter grimaced and shoved his arm through the strap of his duffel bag, settling it on his back, then picked up the large suitcase and grabbed the garment bag with his other hand. Without saying a word to her, he shoved his way back through the people toward the counters at the far end of the room. Leslie went after him.
“Wait. I can carry something. Give me the garment bag.”
He cast her an unfriendly glance. “I’m working for you, remember?”
They handed their passports to a man behind one of the four counters, and he perused them, stamped them and handed them back to Cutter. They walked a few more steps to another counter, behind which stood a pretty, dark-haired girl in a uniform. Cutter set their bags on the counter, and the girl flashed him a smile. She opened Leslie’s large bag and poked through it slowly, glancing up at Cutter several times during the process with a bright, flirtatious glance or remark. He answered her in the same way; once he even winked at the woman. It grated on Leslie’s nerves. She had the deep suspicion they were laughing at her.
“Do you think you could flirt with her some other time?” she grumbled to Cutter. “This is slow enough as it is.”
He glanced down at her coolly. “You’ll have to get used to it, darlin’. Things are slower here.”
Leslie decided that she disliked his “darlin’” fully as much as she had disliked his previous use of “lady” in addressing her. The customs girl cast a glance at her and suppressed a giggle, murmuring something in Spanish. Cutter and the girl at the other counter both laughed. Leslie’s level of irritation rose several notches. As the girl passed their luggage down the counter and Cutter swept it up, Leslie marched around to face him, pulling her face into its coolest, haughtiest lines. “I’ll thank you not to call me ‘darlin’’ or ‘lady’ anymore. It’s demeaning.”
His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me. I didn’t realize,” he retorted sarcastically. “What should I call you—Your Highness?”
“Leslie will do, thank you.”
“What an honor.”
“If you think you can tear yourself away from your new friends, I’d like to leave this place.”
She whirled around and marched through the doors into the non-restricted area of the airport. Here there were porters by the dozens, all clamoring for their trade. Leslie motioned to one to take their bags, and he hurried over, almost yanking the luggage from Cutter’s hands. Leslie intended the gesture to show that she was in control once again. She was accustomed to running her life and felt a little ashamed for her momentary weakness when she had gratefully let Cutter take over. She wasn’t about to give him the impression that she was a helpless female whom he could order around.
However, Cutter didn’t seem to take the hint, and the gesture was further spoiled by the fact that Leslie didn’t have the slightest idea where to go from here. Cutter grasped her arm just above her elbow and propelled her across the room and out the glass doors on the right. Leslie shielded her eyes against the fierce sunlight and almost gasped in dismay when she saw the line of banged-up blue-and-white cars lined up at the curb.
“Are those taxis?”
Cutter hid a grin and walked toward one, pulling Leslie along with him. The cars were all foreign and very old, mostly Kias and Saabs that looked as if they had been in numerous wrecks. The taxi driver bounced out, grinning, and opened the door for them, then went to load the baggage into the trunk. Leslie reached in her purse and pulled out her wallet, but Cutter had already whipped out a San Cristóbalian bill and handed it to the porter. Leslie frowned, stuck her wallet back in her purse and slid into the car. Cutter got in after her and started instructing the driver in Spanish. The driver nodded and said, “Sí. El Palacio.”
“What did you say?” Leslie demanded.
“I told him to take us to a hotel named El Palacio.”
“Just like that? You’ve decided where we’re going to stay? Don’t I get a say in the matter? In case you didn’t know, I have started three very successful hotels in the US and I know quite a lot about the industry.”
“Do you know about every hotel in the world? Or even just the specific hotels in San Cristóbal? Did you have a chance to look them all up while you were packing the largest suitcase I’ve ever seen someone intend to take on a back country rescue mission?”
“Well, no… I haven’t explored all our options.” Leslie suddenly wished she’d used the time on the flight to look some things up instead of reading her book. “But you could have at least asked me.”
“You are really something else, lady—excuse me, Leslie. I speak Spanish, and you don’t. I know La Luz, an
d you don’t. Yet you think you’re the one who ought to decide where we go and who should do the talking?”
Put that way, it sounded stupid, Leslie knew. If it had been Avery or another friend with her instead of Cutter, she would have been glad to let him handle it for her. But with Cutter, she was suspicious of his motives. More than that, she was terrified of letting him get the upper hand. She couldn’t remember ever feeling that way about any other man, but there was something about Cutter that made him different. It set her nerves on edge and turned her snappish; it made her defensive and a little frightened and…somehow excited. She wished she knew what set Cutter apart from all the others, but she suspected that the less she knew about him, the better it would be for her peace of mind.
They said nothing else the rest of the way to the hotel.
Leslie couldn’t fault Cutter’s choice of hotels. It was a lovely, grand old hotel in the European tradition. She had always specialized in starting small, elegantly modern hotels. The kind frequented by children of celebrities and young tech moguls. But there was a definite appeal about this kind of hotel, too, and she found it beguiling. The lobby floor was Italian marble, and beautiful Persian rugs were scattered throughout, with conversational groupings of furniture set upon them. When they reached the desk clerk’s marble counter, Cutter ostentatiously stepped aside and gestured for Leslie to conduct the business of getting their rooms.
He’d done the same thing moments earlier with the taxi driver, lounging against the car, smoking a cigarette and saying nothing while she tried to communicate with the driver in Spanish. Leslie had taken Italian in school and there were some similarities between the languages, but in the intervening years she had gotten rusty, and while she could understand some of what he said to her, she struggled to ask him which of the San Cristóbalian bills she should give him. Then Cutter had crossed his arms and gazed at her blankly when the bellman delivered their luggage to the desk and turned for a tip. Leslie had handed the man a bill that, from his pleased smile, she understood was probably an even more overly generous tip than she would have normally given someone.
