Cutter's Lady

by Candace Camp

  The best thing to do would be to put their relationship on a more even keel. She must guard against the anger and dislike he aroused in her just as she would guard against her physical response to him. She would treat him with the good humor and respect she showed her other employees. She would keep her temper down—and she would ignore his appealing face and form. It was in this positive frame of mind that she greeted Cutter when he knocked on her door later in the afternoon. It didn’t take long for him to test her resolves.

  “Your clothes ready?” He glanced around her room and his eyes settled on her three pieces of luggage. “You aren’t planning on taking all that.”

  “I didn’t see much point in leaving it here.”

  “It’s too much. We’ll have a car only part of the way. The rest of the trip will be on burros or on foot.” He strode to bags and unzipped the long leather garment bag. Ruthlessly he pulled out the clothes inside and sorted through them, tossing her jeans and plainest shirts onto the bed. He held up an elegant black dress and flashed her a look of disgust. “You planning on going to a cocktail party with the guerrilla fighters?”

  “I thought we might have to attend some government thing. Or a party at the embassy after we get Blake. You know.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve never been to a party at the embassy.” He hung the dress back in the closet and added Leslie’s other attractive suits and dresses. “You won’t need any of those where we’re going.”

  “Surely I could wear the pants.”

  “If you want to subject them to mud, rain, burros and grass stains.”

  “Oh, all right. But I need the hats for the sun.”

  “Not two. Take the one you can fold up. Leave the garden party here.” He tossed aside the broad-brimmed hat she usually wore to the beach.

  “But what are you planning to do with all this stuff? I am not throwing away my most comfortable black heels.”

  “We’re leaving them in the room. Before I came up to the room, I dropped by the desk and informed them that we would be staying at least a couple of weeks. I figured it wouldn’t kill you financially to keep the rooms, and it might help fool some people into thinking we’re still in La Luz—at least long enough for us to get away.”

  “What people?”

  “I don’t know. Maldenado’s goons? The kidnappers? Assorted political groups?” Cutter opened her suitcase and rummaged through it, tossing all but one pair of sturdy hiking boots into the closet beneath the dresses. Leslie, who had been rather pleased with her organization and efficiency in packing for a variety of different scenarios, gritted her teeth but made no comment. Nor did she protest when he removed the three paperbacks and pad of paper she had brought to substitute for her iPad, having been warned of the unreliability of wifi in the interior of San Cristóbal. She kept her mouth shut tight when he discarded one nightgown and robe set. But when he dumped her only other nightgown onto the bed, she couldn’t restrain herself.

  “What are you doing? I need something to sleep in!”

  “You can sleep in your clothes. We won’t be stopping at a string of Holiday Inns, you know. You don’t need a matching robe and gown to sleep in a tent or run to the outdoor toilet.” He picked up her blow dryer and set it on the dresser. “No electricity,” he explained succinctly.

  Her makeup joined the pile of discards, as well as her perfume. “Three different sunscreens? Are you kidding? Three?”

  “Spray, face, and body,” Leslie replied. “Come on. I’ll use them up and throw away the container.”

  “Where? In your handy jungle trashcans?” He sighed, but set the sunscreens aside with the brush, toothbrush and toothpaste that were the only items out of her entire cosmetics case that Cutter deemed necessary. Leslie forced herself to stow the other things away in the dresser drawers without comment.

  Cutter went to his room and came back shortly with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “Okay, let’s go.” He picked up her suitcase and started down the hall.

  “Wait. Where are you going? The elevator’s this way.”

  “We aren’t taking the elevator.”

  Leslie followed him. “May I ask why not?”

  “There’s somebody watching the elevators and the front door, so we’re leaving by the back door.”

  “Watching the elevator? You mean, spying on us?”

  “Yeah. I spotted both of them when I went out to get the car and the—other stuff I needed. I lost them before I rented the car, though, and I made sure I came in the rear entrance.”

  “Why would anybody be tailing us?”

  Cutter shrugged. “National pastime. Everybody’s suspicious of everybody else. I suspect our friend Maldenado set them on us. He seemed not to want us interfering with anything.”

  They went down an endless set of concrete stairs and wound up in a laundry area. Cutter led Leslie through a dingy hallway past garbage cans and rattling, clanking machinery, then up a few steps and into a narrow alley. They strode quickly down the alley, and at the street Cutter stopped cautiously to check it out. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Cutter gave Leslie a nod and turned left. Half a block away he stopped beside a peeling, dented Kia that had seen many years of use. He dumped their bags into the back seat.

  “We’re going in this?” Leslie asked in amazement.

  “What did you expect—a Mercedes?”

  She glared at him. “Of course not, but I figured we’d get a jeep or something. Will this make it over the roads in the interior? In fact, can this thing make it out of town?”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. Its engine’s sound enough. I checked it out. It can handle the roads. By the time we get close to the guerrillas, we’ll be without roads altogether.”

  It wasn’t exactly a comforting thought. Leslie opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, and Cutter got in to drive. He pulled out into the traffic with all the verve of the other San Cristóbal drivers, and Leslie closed her eyes.

  It took a half hour to leave the city, but Leslie wasn’t impatient. She was too interested in looking at all the statues, plazas, fountains, river walks, graceful old houses and antique bridges. Once out of the city, Cutter set a better pace, although the traffic was too erratic and the road too poor to make good time.

  Leslie let the rocking of the car lull her into dozing, but she came wide awake about an hour later when Cutter slammed a hand against the steering wheel. “Damn! I think someone’s following us.”

  Chapter 5

  “What?” Leslie shot straight up in her seat, all thought of sleep banished. She looked behind them but saw nothing but an empty road. “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know. I suspect. Wait a minute. Now look.”

  Leslie swiveled her head around again. In the distance behind them was a white car just topping a small rise.

  “That white car has been the same distance behind us for the last thirty minutes. That’s when I began to notice it. I don’t know how long it had been behind us before that. I’ve slowed down and speeded up, and the white car remains that distance behind. Typically, it would run up on us or get left behind.”

  Leslie glanced at the car again. “How can you tell it’s the same one? I can barely see it.”

  “It’s the same one,” he replied unanswerably.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Give them a test. See that stand up there? We’re stopping.” He slowed the car.

  Ahead Leslie could see that the highway intersected a dirt road. At one corner of the intersection, the thick brush and trees had been hacked away and a small thatch-roofed, open-air hut had been set up. Cutter pulled off the road and parked beside the hut.

  “What is this place?” Leslie asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “This is a drink stand, and we’re going to see what that car does. Come on.”

  Cutter opened the door and stepped out, and Leslie followed suit. It was pleasant to stretch her legs after sitting in the small car for over an ho
ur. She trailed behind Cutter as he walked to the drink stand, which was little more than four poles supporting a thatched roof. A man stood beneath the roof, a large machete in his hand, and piled all around him were large, smooth green gourds.

  “Dos.” Cutter held up two fingers and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Leslie watched, fascinated, as the man picked up one big roundish pod, whacked off one end with his machete and stuck a straw into the gourd.

  He handed it to Leslie, grinning and revealing two sparkling silver teeth in front. “Señora.”

  “Gracias.” Leslie smiled and took the heavy object with both hands. While the man prepared another one for Cutter, she sipped at the straw, wondering what on earth it was. There was a watery liquid inside, cool, faintly sweet and reminiscent of something—what was it? “Coconut!” she exclaimed.

  Cutter paid the man and turned, smiling. “Right.” It surprised him that Leslie had drunk from the straw without hesitation even though she didn’t know what the gourd contained. He would have thought her more guarded and conservative, the kind who refused to eat or drink anything she hadn’t tasted before.

  “Only it’s not quite as sweet.” She took another sip and smiled at Cutter. She felt suddenly good and happy; she wanted to laugh. Leslie wasn’t sure why—after all, they were here on worrisome business, she and her companion didn’t get along and they were being followed. But the sun was warm on her head, the drink was refreshing and she felt active and alive.

  Cutter came closer, drawn by the beauty of her unaffected smile. He leaned against the trunk of the car, extending his legs out in front, crossed at the ankles. Casually he drank from the coconut hull, looking only like a man resting and enjoying the scenery. Leslie watched him. He was close to her, their shoulders almost touching, and she was aware of his warm bulk and the power of his chest and shoulders. Somehow, with Cutter there, the idea of someone following them didn’t seem terribly frightening.

  “Why isn’t it brown and hairy?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, the coconut. That’s inside. This is the outer shell.”

  The white car passed the stand, traveling slowly. Only Cutter’s eyes, unseen behind his dark glasses, followed the movement of the car. There were two men in the car, and neither of them glanced in Leslie’s direction.

  “Now what?” Leslie asked.

  “Now we ask the vendor to slice off the hull and give us the meat. Are you through with your juice?”

  “Yes. The only bad thing it that there isn’t more in it.” They walked back over to the hut. “But what about that car?”

  “If I’m wrong, we’ll never see it again. If I’m right, it doesn’t matter that we make them wait.”

  “Oh. No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  Cutter handed the large shells back to the man with the machete, and he neatly split each shell in two pieces and cut each piece in half again. Then he sliced each quarter from its shell about halfway down.

  Again they leaned against the car beneath the shade of the looming trees and ate the meat from the shells. After a moment, Leslie said, “Cutter…”

  “Hmm?” He looked at her.

  “What’s your real name?”

  “My real name? What do you mean? Cutter is my real name.”

  “No, I mean, your first name.”

  He rubbed his hand across his neck, his thumb coming to rest in the space between his clavicles. “Don’t have one.”

  “Everyone has a first name. Just tell me an initial, at least.”

  He shook his head. “My name is Cutter. That’s all.”

  Leslie made an exasperated face. It teased at her curiosity. Somehow she was going to have to find out his name. But for the moment, it was better for their fragile peace to let it drop.

  She glanced around at the vegetation. Trees and brush grew thick on either side of the road, like a living green wall. Nearly all the trees were green, even though it was the middle of winter, and there were several that were even in bloom. Of course, with temperatures like this, Leslie guessed there really never was a winter.

  “What’s that tree over there with the big red flowers?” she asked, pointing.

  Cutter followed her finger. “African tulip tree.”

  “Why is it in bloom?”

  “It has flowers all year round. But see that one over there, with the tiny little pink flowers, kind of hairy?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s mango. This is the time of year when it blooms. Then it has fruit in March.”

  “Mango growing wild. That’s amazing. It feels exotic.”

  “Everything in this country does.”

  “Do you like San Cristóbal?” Leslie asked. “I can’t tell by what you say if you love it or hate it.”

  Cutter shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about whether I liked it or not. The people are usually kind and friendly. It’s always warm here. It’s beautiful. But it can be almost too much of a good thing. Cloying. Overripe. Like this jungle. Nice trees, flowering vines, but so thick it closes you in. Everything these people have, they have to tear from the jungle. In some ways it’s a nice life. No cold, no snow, food just hanging off the trees all the time. But, believe me, this place makes you pay the price for it. Can you imagine trying to farm around here? Having to hack every bit of land out of this jungle, using primitive tools?”

  Leslie shook her head. She couldn’t even picture it. She pulled off a strip of the white coconut meat and popped it into her mouth, then began to lift another section. But this part had not been sliced from its shell with the machete, as that above it had, and Leslie could not tear it from the shell. She tugged and tried digging in with her fingernails, but she couldn’t separate it. Cutter reached over and took it from her. He dug in and ripped it up quickly, breaking off a small piece.

  “Open,” he said, holding out the piece of small meat, and Leslie opened her mouth. He popped the piece into it, and as she closed her lips, they grazed Cutter’s fingers. They were warm and a little roughened and tasted of salt. Leslie felt a crazy urge to run her tongue out and slide it across his fingertips. It startled her, and Cutter could see the surprise and sensual awareness in her eyes. The look on her face, suddenly soft and a little dreamy, stirred him as much as the satin touch of her lips on his fingers. He would have liked to bend and kiss her softened lips and slide his tongue inside to taste the sweet milk of the coconut in her mouth.

  Instead, he turned away abruptly. “Let’s go.”

  “All right.” Leslie was too shaken to want the moment to continue. Hurriedly she rounded the car and opened the passenger door. She sat down inside and pulled a tissue out of her purse to wipe the coconut juice from her fingers. Cutter had returned to the drink stand, and Leslie was grateful to have the moment alone to collect herself.

  Cutter returned with two extra coconuts and set them in the back seat. “In case we get thirsty along the way,” he explained, and started the car.

  After that, neither of them spoke. Leslie studied her interlaced hands and tried to think of something to say. The silence was oppressive, too heavy with the memory of the moment that had just passed between them. It seemed as if the longer the silence stretched, the more significant the little incident became. Leslie was about to resort to asking about more of the dense foliage when she felt Cutter tense beside her. She followed the direction of his eyes and saw a small white car pulled off onto the side of the road ahead.

  “There they are,” Cutter announced unnecessarily as they drove by.

  The driver was sitting with a map spread out before him, studying it. Cutter kept glancing in his rearview mirror after they passed the car. “And there they go. They’re pulling onto the road now.”

  “I suppose it could be coincidence,” Leslie said doubtfully.

  “Not likely. But we’ll give them another chance or two. Before Chempua it doesn’t make much difference if they’re on our tail. You could go almost anywhere from Chempua; three major roads run out of it.
We could be going up to Metapeque to see the Mayan ruins; that’s a fairly big tourist attraction in San Cristóbal.”

  “I’d go sightseeing while I’m waiting for word about Blake? After I’ve flown all the way down here from New York because I was so worried?”

  Cutter shrugged. “You could do it to pass the time. I’m not saying it’s likely, but they can’t discount it. Even if they figure we’re headed for the mountains, we could go north or south from Chempua and still turn to the west later. The road I’d planned to take splits about fifteen miles past Chempua. After that our goal is obvious, so we have to lose them in Chempua.”

  “How much farther is it?” Leslie asked. The sun was beginning to set. Amidst the thick, tall trees, the dark came on more quickly that she was used to.

  “Another hour or so. We’ll stop and eat there.”

  Leslie settled into her seat. The silence was no longer so oppressive and now, oddly, she could think of many different things to say. She was incurably curious, always interested in new things, and here in San Cristóbal everything around her was new. There were a hundred things she wanted to ask about. She wondered if her questioning would annoy Cutter. Somehow, he didn’t seem the type who would like a lot of chatter. She kept her mouth closed for a few minutes, then shrugged inwardly. If Cutter didn’t like her talking, he was more than capable of telling her to shut up. She might as well go ahead and satisfy her curiosity until he did so.

  “How do people around here make a living?” she asked. “I mean, you said it was hard to farm because of the jungle. Like that guy back there who sold us the coconuts. Can he make a living standing by the road doing that?”

  “By San Cristóbalian standards he’ll make a decent living, yeah. The dirt road that crosses the highway leads to a fair-size ruin a team of archaeologists is excavating. Besides the archaeologists and their crew, they employ quite a few local workers. He gets a lot of trade from them as well as from the highway. The La Luz-Chempua road is a pretty major highway.”