Cutter's Lady

by Candace Camp

  “I wasn’t pretending! Yes, I did think that if we kissed where they could see us, they would figure we’d stay in our hotel room for a while. So I let them see us kiss. But I wasn’t faking the kisses. I wasn’t pretending the passion. I want you. But there’ll be another time for us, a time when we’ll have hours and hours to enjoy each other, to touch, tease and explore all night long.”

  Leslie whirled, her eyes flashing. “No, there won’t! I can guarantee that.” She stalked over to her suitcase and jerked it off the bed. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Damn it! Will you stop behaving like an immature teenager?” The ache in his own body had his nerves on edge, and his thwarted passion leaped to expend itself in anger.

  “It suited your plans earlier for me to behave like an immature teenager—getting drunk and letting myself be ruled by hormones. You took advantage of it, in fact!”

  “Took advantage? You sound like a novel from a hundred years ago.”

  “What else would you call it? I got tipsy and you used that to—to put on an act for the guys tailing us! I would never have let you seduce me if I’d been in full possession of my senses.”

  “It’s interesting how your level of sobriety seems to fluctuate depending on what you want. Now that it aligns with your need to be pissed off at me, you were drunk. But a few minutes ago you were arguing how sober you were because you wanted me.” Leslie’s mouth flew open but Cutter kept going. “And I’d hardly call it seducing you—you were the one who started flirting back in the restaurant.”

  Leslie’s eyes widened with anger. She was seething, and it only made it worse to realize that what he said was true. She had flirted with him in the restaurant. She had melted when he touched her, and she had very much wanted him to kiss her. It was horribly humiliating to know that she had been practically panting with desire for him while he had been coolly working out a plan to fool their tail.

  He had been in control of himself the whole time—and in control of her, too! It must have been quite amusing to have her all over him, after the way she had disliked him so much until tonight. The thought drove her anger, and she wanted to lash out at him, to hurt him back. “I’m glad you were only staging a scene, because if I’d slept with you tonight, I would have despised myself tomorrow morning. And it doesn’t really matter if I was tipsy or drunk, the bottom line is if I hadn’t had those drinks, the thought of you touching me would make my skin crawl.”

  His eyes turned cold then, and he laughed harshly. “Let me tell you—as someone who has done my share of drinking and acting on impulses—drinking doesn’t turn you into anything you aren’t already, somewhere inside you. And it doesn’t change what you want. It just releases your inhibitions and lets that part of you out. We both know that you’ve been aching for me since the moment we met.”

  Leslie glared at him. She wanted to scream or throw something, anything to release the horrible, frustrated anger inside her, an anger that was directed more at herself than at Cutter. But years of training were too strong; she couldn’t act that way. Instead she swung around, tears stinging her eyes, and marched to the door. She flung it open and almost ran down the hall. Cursing softly, Cutter grabbed his bag and followed her.

  ***

  It took them thirty minutes to reach the boat. Leaving the hotel was easy enough. They slipped down the stairs and out the north side entrance onto a dark deserted street. Cutter looked around carefully, then motioned for Leslie to follow him, and they walked swiftly to the next street, which paralleled the main boulevard on which the hotel sat. Their problem then was finding a taxi. They trudged along together in stony silence. Once Cutter glanced over at Leslie and asked if she was tired and wanted him to carry her bag. She thrust out her chin and answered with a quick “No.” The truth was, her feet were beginning to hurt, and the throb in her head was growing with each step. She was thirsty and tired and humiliatingly close to tears. But she would have died before she complained to Cutter.

  Her face told more truth than her words, however. Cutter turned at the next corner and returned to the boulevard, where they could more easily find a taxi. They were rewarded by the sight of one only moments later. Cutter flagged it down, and they rode to the docks.

  It seemed to Leslie that they walked along the docks forever. When at last they reached the boat, Leslie’s spirits sank even farther, though she wouldn’t have thought that possible. The craft was small and dirty, and crates and boxes were piled all around on the deck. They crossed the small wooden walkway from the dock to the boat. It swayed slightly beneath Leslie’s feet, and for a moment she imagined herself being tossed into the dirty river below, suitcase and all. Then, holding her breath, she went on. Cutter gripped her around the waist and swung her down onto the deck. The feel of his strong hands biting into her waist shook her.

  “Wait here,” he told her in a low voice, and disappeared down a small stairwell. Soon he was back, carrying two blankets in his hands. “Come on.” He motioned with his head, picked up his duffel bag and moved toward the back of the boat. There were a few narrow spaces between the crates, and here and there Leslie thought she saw a sleeping form. At the back of the boat, Cutter halted beside a pile of boxes and held out one coarse blanket to her.

  “You can sleep here. I’ll be right on the other side of these boxes.”

  Leslie looked down at the blanket uncomprehendingly. “Where?”

  He pointed to the space between the boxes. “There.”

  “On the deck?”

  “I told you this trip would get uncomfortable.” He looked at her with something that seemed almost like compassion. Leslie would have expected an air of smug satisfaction, but hard as she tried to see that in his eyes, she just didn’t. He gave her a small, tight smile then finally set the blanket down on the deck. He walked around her to the other side of the boxes. Setting down his bag, he shook out his blanket, wrapped it around himself like a cloak and lay down.

  Leslie set down her suitcase and cautiously picked up the blanket. She had never slept outside before, nor on the floor with only one blanket for both mattress and comforter, nor with strangers lying scattered around her. It seemed a dangerous, not to mention uncomfortable, proposition. However, this was what she had signed up for when she insisted on coming, and there was little she could do about it now. She could either sleep or sit up all night, huddled in her blanket. She spread it out and lay down on it, pulling the two sides around her. She stared up at the stars. The floor was hard, and she suspected it was dirty. It was probably just as well that it was nighttime, so that she couldn’t see precisely how dirty it was. She took her Gucci purse and stuck it under her head. It wasn’t much, but at least it kept her head from being flat on the hard floor.

  Leslie closed her eyes, convinced that she would never rest. But the alcohol she had drunk earlier had its way, and in minutes she was fast asleep.

  ***

  She was awakened what seemed like only minutes later by the sound of footsteps and voices calling to each other. She opened her eyes. It was stunningly bright. She as staring at a wooden crate not six inches from her face. One arm, which lay beneath her, was numb. Her head felt swollen and ached ferociously. Twin needles stabbed through her eyes all the way back into her soggy brain. Leslie groaned. For a moment she was completely disoriented, unsure where she was or what time and day it was.

  It seemed very puzzling. She was sleeping on something extremely hard, and her whole body was one big ache. Then she remembered the night before. Cutter! She was on a boat with Cutter. She sat up quickly and immediately regretted it. Her stomach lurched, her head swam and her muscles cried out in anguish. She sat still for a moment, kneading her numbed arm and waiting for her head and stomach to stop roiling, then pulled up her knees and rested her elbows on them, her head in her hands. Now she remembered far too much of last night. She had had too much to drink and made an utter fool of herself. She had actually kissed Cutter passionately—and that was made all the worse by the
fact that he had been putting on a show for the men who had followed them. It was completely humiliating. That loathsome Cutter must have been dying with laughter on the inside. How could she have let herself act that way? How could she have left herself open for such ridicule?

  Leslie rubbed the heels of her hands up her forehead. The nausea had eased, though the headache was still poundingly there. Cautiously she stood up and edged around the end of the crates. On the other side lay Cutter, sprawled face-down on the deck, disgustingly sound asleep. Rather uncharitably, Leslie kicked at the sole of his shoe with her foot. Cutter mumbled something and rolled over. Leslie kicked at his foot again, this time with a bit more force, and his eyes opened slowly.

  “Huh?”

  “I thought guys like you slept with one eye open.”

  Cutter yawned. “Pretty uncomfortable, wouldn’t you think?”

  “How can you expect to escape danger if you sleep like a log?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes I’m a bit more alert.’

  “The boat seems to be underway.”

  “You woke me up to tell me that?”

  Now that she thought about it, Leslie wasn’t quite sure why she had awakened him. She certainly wasn’t eager for his company. She supposed it was simply because her sour mood couldn’t tolerate the idea of Cutter’s happily sleeping.

  “I’d like to know where we’re going and what we’re doing.”

  “Go back to bed. We’ll talk about it later.” Cutter shut his eyes and was instantly asleep.

  Leslie glanced around her. Her stomach wasn’t soothed by the rocking of the boat, and the increasing brightness of the sun made her head throb harder. There were two men working at the opposite end of the boat. She thought that it would help her uncertain stomach if she ate something, but Leslie couldn’t work up the courage to approach the men and fumble through a request. She cursed herself silently for not knowing other languages beside French and Italian. Certainly that would be more useful than many of the things she’d studied so intently in school.

  She eased back down onto the deck and leaned her head against a crate. What a miserable, miserable day. She wanted to cry, but she was afraid Cutter might hear her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction; he’d gloat and remind her that he’d told her the trip was too hard for her. Why? Why had she gone so off the rails like that last night! It must have been sheer nerves from the strain of the past few weeks.

  Cutter was sexy; she’d give him that. No doubt there were a lot of women who fell for his macho appeal. But she wasn’t one of those women! She didn’t even like him. How could she possibly have melted in his arms? It was insane. It went against all her principles. She’d never regain any control over him or the operation now. Cutter would no doubt think he could get her to agree to anything he wanted by using his sex appeal. Worst of all, how was she going to be able to trust herself?

  Leslie spent most of the morning in the little cave of her crates, feeling awful. Finally Cutter awakened and ambled around the corner. He smiled down at her. “Morning. How’re you feeling?”

  Leslie glared at him. Cutter chuckled. “That bad huh? Sorry. Want me to get you something for your headache?” Leslie would have loved an ibuprofen, or four, but she shook her head. She wasn’t about to let Cutter make any friendly overtures. Her guard must but up at all times now.

  “Then how about some food?” Cutter went on genially. “It’ll help your hangover some.”

  “I don’t have a hangover.”

  “Liar.”

  “I am simply sleepy and sore from sleeping on that deck.”

  “Stiff neck?”

  Leslie nodded. Before she knew what he was doing, Cutter had squatted down on the deck, facing her, and wrapped his hands around the back of her neck to massage it firmly. Leslie would have liked to tear out of his grasp, but she didn’t have the strength. It felt too wonderful to have his hands smoothing out the knots of soreness. Her head drooped, and it was all she could do to hold back the primitive, almost sexual moan of satisfaction that rose in her throat.

  At last Cutter stopped, and his hands dropped away. “How’s that?”

  “Heavenly,” Leslie admitted honestly. She raised her head. He was still squatted down, so that his eyes were almost on a level with hers. She found it hard to look away. “Thank you.”

  “No trouble. Sure you don’t want anything for your headache?”

  Leslie frowned suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?” She found it easier to deal with his usual sarcasm.

  He shrugged, grinning. “Can’t help it. It’s just my sweet personality.”

  She grimaced and said sourly, “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “Really?” The cool green eyes were mocking. “You found me charming enough last night.”

  Leslie glared at him. “If you were any kind of gentleman, you wouldn’t mention last night.”

  Cutter laughed. “Are you sure you’re from New York? That sounds like something Scarlett O’Hara would have said.”

  “No doubt the concept of a ‘gentleman’ would seem old-fashioned to you, but it will surprise you to know that they still exist in the world. And, believe me, they are very much appreciated.”

  “Mmm,” he said noncommittally. “If you say so. Tell me, would you be willing to take a couple ibuprofens from such a low and crude fellow as myself?”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “You’re real gracious yourself, lady.”

  Leslie gritted her teeth. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Cutter chuckled and rose lithely to his feet. Leslie watched him walk across the deck and out of sight, then lowered her head to her knees and retreated back into her little world of agony.

  A few minutes later, Cutter’s shadow fell across her, and his light voice pulled her from her half-dozing state. “Breakfast is served, madame.”

  Leslie raised her head to see Cutter ease down to the deck, a styrofoam cup in either hand. “Thank you.” She took one of the cups from him. Cutter reached into his back pocket and drew out a rather squashed-looking roll wrapped in cellophane and tossed it onto the deck in front of her.

  “Try one of these; it’ll help.” He tossed out another package. “Oh, I forgot.” He fumbled in the pocket of his shirt and removed two small white tablets. He held them out to her, cupped in his palm.

  Leslie hesitated. She didn’t want to touch his hand. Even the thought of it made her pulse speed up. She gave herself a mental shake—she was acting as immature as he’d accused her of being last night. She snatched them from him, dropping one in the process. It hit the deck and rolled, and Leslie grabbed it. She could feel Cutter’s gaze on her, and she suspected he derived a great deal of amusement from her actions. She gulped down the tablets with a swig of coffee and eyed the sweet rolls in front of her. With the first sip of coffee, she had thought that her queasy stomach was going to rebel, but it had subsided somewhat, and she wondered if a little food might quiet it down even more. However, the packets of flattened bread didn’t look particularly appetizing.

  She picked up one package, tore open the wrapper and cautiously took a bite. It was a sweet cake without icing and it tasted good. Leslie finished it off quickly and leaned back against one of the boxes around them, feeling better. She glanced at Cutter almost shyly. He was resting lazily against a crate across from her, his eyes closed and his battered cowboy hat tipped forward to shade his eyes.

  “Thank you,” Leslie said in a soft voice.

  He opened one eye and looked at her. “You’re welcome.” He closed his eye again. He was quiet for such a long time that Leslie thought he had fallen asleep, when suddenly he asked, “Why do you feel so bad about last night?”

  “What?”

  “I wondered why you’re upset. Do you still love your ex-husband?”

  “Blake? No. No, I don’t still love him.”

  “Seems to me there must be some kind of powerful feeling there for you to chase down here yourself
to rescue him.”

  “It’s not love,” Leslie said flatly.

  Cutter wasn’t one to be easily swayed from his course. “What is it, then?”

  Leslie sighed. “This is really none of your business, Cutter.”

  “It is if I’m risking my neck for you and him.”

  “I don’t think that necessarily follows. However, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It’s guilt.”

  He opened his eyes. “Guilt?”

  “I was friends with someone who worked in the same building where my office is. We often had lunch together. We had a lot in common. Then we began to get a drink together after work sometimes. Our friendship got deeper and deeper over time until I was convinced I’d fallen in love with him. It wasn’t like what you think,” Leslie assured Cutter hastily. “I was never unfaithful to Blake.”

  “I didn’t figure you were. But why do you feel so guilty, then?”

  “Because I wanted to be unfaithful. I never was, but just knowing I could feel that way… I told Blake I wanted a divorce. After everything was finalized, I told Michael —that was the other guy—how I felt about him. And it turned out he was actually reconciling with his ex. Apparently, he had never even thought of me in that way.”

  “Then he was either blind or a complete idiot.” Cutter supplied. “Or both.”

  “Blake found out that I hadn’t actually ended up with Michael and he came to my condo to try to win me back: said he was still in love with me and wanted us to remarry. But I told him that it didn’t matter whether Michael and I were lovers or friends or nothing at all. When I realized I could feel that way about someone else, it also made me realize I’d never felt that way about Blake.”

  “You really take brutal honesty seriously, don’t you?” Cutter laughed.

  “Hey! I’d really tried my best not to hurt Blake more than I had to during the whole divorce—but at that point, I felt like it was more cruel to let him think there was a possibility that he could change how I felt, or didn’t feel, about him.”